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BY D'OUGLAS pRBOLD, ESQ. 

AUTHOR OF MRS. CAUDLE’s CURTAIN LECTURES, STORY OF A FEATHER, “ n.ME 

WORKS WONDERS,” ETC. ETC. 




NEW- YORK: 

iURGESS, STRINGER AND COMPANY. 


1 847 . 


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INTRODUCTION. 


Our first paragraph shall be a confession of ignorance. We know not the genealogy 
of St. Giles. All we know is this. Our St. Giles was born — we can hardly say first 
saw the light — in Hampshire Hog Lane. We believe that we are pretty sure of his fa- 
ther : but at once lose ourselves, seeking his grandsire. We are immediately in a 
genealogical fog, without even a link’s end from the Herald’s office to guide us. True 
it is, we might if we would, sit contentedly down in the darkness, and our imagination 
aided by obscurity — as men are apt to close their eyes when they would take a bright 
internal look — might in a trice discover the family tree ; now complacently following 
its branches as they waved towards the court-end of the town, and now avoiding them 
as they struck towards Tyburn. We might do this : for it has been done many a time, 
and for only so much hard cash. But can the family of St. Giles fee us for the labor 1 
No. Then we trust we are not so wholly lost to the decencies of life, as to lie gratis. 

Nevertheless, we owe some explanation to the polite reader, for that we have given 
typographical precedence to St. Giles to the apparent injury of St. James. We think 
we have a just reason for this. There appears to us — and sure we are the like opinion 
burns in the breasts of many most respectable people — more of the original animal man 
in St. Giles, than in St. James. He seems to vindicate, and that brazenly, unblushing- 
ly, the baseness of his origin. He stands before us a creature of the earth ; or rather? 
of the mud of the earth. If it be otherwise, then has St. Giles again and again been 
much abused, mistaken. 

The very nakedness of St. Giles — according to our heraldry — ^makes him elder bro- 
ther of St. James. As we consider him, he is as much the elder, as the bare skin of 
man is older than the silks and .velvets that have en wrapt it. He may be a marked and 
branded vagabond ; but, nevertheless, he is the elder brother. Contemplating him, we 
behold in his wants — in his fierceness, begotten of these wants — the proscribed from the 
confines of this world’s Paradis^. Consider the history of man. Your vagabond is lost 
in the shadows of antiquarian night : now, your gentleman is a commonplace of yester- 
day. Upon this philosophical principle do we place St. Giles before St. James, and be- 
lieve us, dear reader, for no catchpenny reason whatever. We do not say that a three- 
legged oaken stool, is a finer, more commodious chattel than a gilded chair ; but, in the 
genealogy of household moveables, sure we are it ranks as the elder brother. 

St. Giles and St. James ! Is it possible they can be brethren? Every particle of 
their faces, every atom of their covering cries no : externally as different as the afore- 
said three-legged stool and glittering chair ; and yet, in truth, of the same frame-work 
— the very same. Impossible ! Let us see. 

What a clumsy thing is this three-legged stool. What heavy joinery work ! Sure- 
ly, it was shaped by an adze, and put together by some bungler, ignorant of the craft. 
What a piece of stark vulgarity ! 

How very handsome the chair of ceremony ! How soft to the touch — how pleasant 
to the eye ! All damask, carving and gilding. Well, we have stript away the covering : 
we have scratched a little of the gilding off, and what is there beneath ? — why oak, 
mere oak ; a younger branch of the tree — a piece of kindred wood to the three-legged 
stool. The same material makes stool and chair, — but then the magical delusion work- 
ed by damask, gold, and dainty carving ! 

In this way it is our hope to show St. Giles and St. James : to prove their brother- 
hood — their identity of material. We may here and there scratch a little of the gilding- 
off one, but only to display the kindred nature of both. Thus, St. James may some- 
times appear to be only St. Giles better stuffed, and with a brighter covering. 


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THE HISTORY 

OF 

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


. CHAPTER I. 

I 

The streets were empty. Pitiless cold 
had driven all who had the shelter of a roof 
to their homes ; and the north-east blast 
seemed to howl in triumph above the un- 
trodden snow. Winter was at the heart of 
all things. The wretched, dumb with ex- 
cess of misery, suffered, in stupid resigna- 
tion, the tyranny of the season. Human 
blood stagnated in the breast of want ; and 
death in that despairing hour losing its ter- 
rors, looked, in the eyes of many a wretch, 
a sweet deliverer. It was a time Avhen the 
very poor, barred from the commonest things 
of earth, take strange counsel with them- 
selves, and in the deep humility of destitu- 
tion, believe they are the burden and the of- 
fal of the world. 

It was a time, when the easy, comforta- 
ble man, touched with finest sense of human 
suffering, gives from his abundance ; and, 
whilst bestowing, feels almost a shame that 
with such wide-spread misery circled round 
him, he has all things fitting ; all things 
grateful. The smitten spirit asks where- 
fore he is not of the multitude of wretched- 
ness ; demands to know for what especial 
excellence he is promoted above the thou- 
sand, thousand starving creatures : in his 
very tenderness for misery, tests his privi- 
lege of exemption from a woe that withers 
manhood in man, bowing him downward to 
the brute. And so questioned, this man 
gives in modesty of spirit — in very thankful- 
ness of soul. His alms are not cold, for- 
mal charities ; but reverent sacrifices to his 
suffering brother. 

It was a time when selfishness hugs 
itself in its own warmth ; with no other 
thoughts than of its many pleasant gifts ; all 
made pleasanter, sweeter, by the desolation 
around. When the mere worlding rejoices 
the more in his warm chamber, because it 
is so bitter cold without ; when he eats and 
drinks with whetted appetite, because he 
hears of destitution, prowling like a wolf 


around his well-barred house ; when, in fine, 
he bears his every comfort about him with 
the pride of a conqueror. A time when such 
a man sees in the misery of his fellow-be- 
ings nothing save his own victory of fortune 
— his own successes in a suffering world. 
To such a man the poor are but the tattered* 
slaves that grace his triumph. 

It was a time, too, whe.n human nature 
often shows its true divinity, and with mis- 
ery like a garment clinging to it, forgets its 
wretchedness in sympathy with sufferiry 
A time, when in the cellars and garrets of 
the poor are acted scenes which make the 
noblest heroism of life ; which prove the 
immortal texture of the human heart, not to 
be wholly seared by the branding-iron of the 
torturing hours. A time when in want, in 
anguish, in throes of mortal agony, some 
seed is sown that bears a flower in heaven. 

Such was the time, the hour approaching 
midnight, when a woman sat on a door-step 
in a London street. Was she sleeping, or 
was she another victim of the icy season % 
Her head had fallen backward against the 
door, and her face shone like a white stone 
in the moonlight. There was a terrible his- 
tory in that face ; cut and lined as it was by 
the twin-workers, vice and misery. Her 
temples were sunken ; her brow wrinkled 
and pinched ; and her thin, jagged mouth — 
in its stony silence — breathed a frightful el- 
oquence. It was a hard mystery to work 
out, to look upon that face, and try to see it 
in its babyhood. Could it be thought that 
woman was once a child 1 

Still she was motionless — breathless. 
And now, a quick, tripping footstep sounds 
in the deserted street ; and a woman, thin- 
ly, poorly clad, but clean and tidy wdthal, 
approaches the door. She is humming a 
tune, a blithe defiance to the season, and 
her manner is of one hastening homeward. 
“ Good God ! if it isn’t a corpse !” she cried, 
standing suddenly fixed before what seem- 
ed, in truth, the effigy of death. In a mo- 
ment, recovering herself, she stooped to- 


6 


THE HISTORY OF 


wards the sitter, and gently shook her. I 
“ Stone-cold — frozen ! Lord in heaven ! 

that his creatures should perish in the 
street !” And then the woman, with a 
piercing shriek, called the watch ; but the 
watch, true to its reputation for sound sub- 
stantial sleep, answered not. “ Watch — 
watch !” screamed the woman with increas- 
ing shrillness ; but the howling of the mid- 
night wind was the only response. A mo- ’ 
ment she paused ; then looked at what she 
deemed the dead ; and flinging her arms 
about her, flew back along the path she had 
trod. With scarcely breath to do common 
credit to her powers of scolding, she drew 
up at a watch-box, and addressing herself 
to the peaceful man within. “ Why, watch 
— here ! a pretty fellow ! — people pay rates, 
and — watch, watch ! — there’s a dead wo- 
man — dead, I tell you — watch — pay rates, 
and are let to die, and — watch — watch — 
watch !” And still she screamed, and at 
length, clawed at and shook the modest 
wooden tenement which, in those happy 
but not distant days of England, sheltered 
England’s civil guardians. 

The watchman was coiled up for unbro- 
ken repose. He had evidently settled the 
matter with himself to sleep until called to 
breakfast by the tradesman who, at the cor- 
ner post, spread his hospital table for the 
early wayfarers who loved saloop. Besides 
the watchman was at least sixty-flve years 
old ; twenty years he had been guardian of 
the public peace, and he knew — no one bet- 
ter — that on such a night even robbery 
would take a holiday, forgetting the cares 
and profits of business in comfortable blank- 
ets. With such assurance, the watchman 
had extinguished his head with his hat, 
crossed his legs, and knotted his arms, with 
a predetermination that nothing short of an 
earthquake, or the saloop, should w-ake him. 
But then the watchman dreamt not of the 
vigor, the perseverance of the assailant, 
who still screamed at him — still shook his 
modest bedroom. At length, but slowdy, 
did the watchman answer the summons. 
Like an aw^akening snake, he gradually un- 
coiled himself ; and whilst the woman’s 
tongue rang — rang like a bell — he calmly 
pushed up his hat, and opening his twm 
small, swinish eyes, looked at the intruder, 
but saw her not. 

“ How the time’s past! Well, Master 
Grub” — for the watchm.an thought only of 
the saloop merchant — “ you may bring the 
stuff here. And this morning, I think I’ll 
take toast ” This said, the speaker dashed 
forwxird his^ arms through his box so sudden- 
ly, so vigorously, that the woman screamed 
anew as she jumped aside. But the watch- 
man had no such unmanly thought. No ; 
all he contemplated w-as a hearty yawn ; 
vihich, with his arms, legs, head, and 
shoulders, he took so sufficingly, that his 


watch-box reverberated like the cave ot 
of some carnivorous, full-gorged beast. 

“Well! after that I hope you are awake 
— and after that — ” 

“ What’s the matter 1” asked the watch- 
man, feeling that the hour of saloop was 
not arrived, and surlily shaking himself at 
the disappointment. “ What’s the matter 1” 

“ The matter ! Poppy-head !” — and the 
wom.an was proceeding in her invective, 
when the functionary observed, 

“ Any more of your bad language, and I 
shall lock you up.” And this he said with 
quite the air of a man who keeps his word. 

“ There’s a woman frozen to death,” 
cried the disturber of the watchman’s peace ; 
at once violently coming to the object of her 
mission. 

“ That was last night,” said the watch- 
man, with a light, supplementary yawn. 

“ I tell you, to-night, man — to-night. — ' 
She’s on a door-step ; there” — and the wo- 
man pointed down the street. “ I should 
like to know what we pay you watchmen 
for, if poor creatures are to drop down dead 
with cold on the highway.” 

The watchman lifted his lantern to the face 
of the speaker — it was a frank, lively, good- 
humored face, with about five-and-thirty 
years lightly laid upon it — and closing one 
eye, as if the act gave peculiar significance 
to what he said, observed, syllable by sylla- 
ble, “ Any more of your imperance, and” — 
here he took an oath, solemnising it with a 
smart blow of his stick upon the pavement, 
“ and I’ll lock you up.” The woman an- 
swered something ; but the words were 
lost, ground by the watchman’s rattle which, 
with consummate excellence — the golden 
fruit of painful practice — he whirled about. 
As cricket answers cricket, the rattle found 
a response. Along the street the sound 
was caught up, prolonged, and carried for- 
ward ; and small by-lanes gave forth a 
wooden voice — a voice that cried to all the 
astounded streets, “justice is awake!” — 
And then lantern after lantern glimmered in 
the night : one lantern advancing with a so- 
ber, a considerate pace ; another, with a 
sort of flutter ; another, dancing like a jack- 
o’-lantern over the snow. And so, lantern 
after lantern, with watchmen behind them, 
came and clustered about the box of him, 
who was on the instant greeted as Drizzle. 

“What’s the row I” cried an Irishman — 
a young fellow of about sixty, who flourish- 
ed his stick, and stamped upon the pave- 
ment, like too indignant virtue, impatient of 
a wrong. “ What’s the row 1 Is it her 1” 
and he was about to lay his civil hand upon 
the woman. 

. Every watchman asked his separate ques- 
tion ; it seemed to be his separate right : 
and Drizzle, as though respecting the priv- 
ilege of his brethren, heard them all — yes, 
every one — before he answered. He then 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


7 


replied, very measuredly — “ A woman is 
froze to death.” 

“ What ! agin I” cried two or three. 

“ Agin,” answered Drizzle. Then turn- 
ing himself round, he headed the watch ; 
and motioning to the woman to show the 
way, he slowly led his fellows down the 
street. In due time, they arrived at the 
spot. 

“ Froze to death V' cried Drizzle doubt- 
ingly, holding his lantern to the bloodless, 
rigid features of the miserable outcast. 

“ Froze to death !” said every other 
watchman, on taking a like survey. 

“No, — no; not dead! Thank God! not 
dead,” exclaimed the woman, stooping to- 
wards her wretched sister. “ Her heart 
beats — I think it beats.” 

“ Werry drunk ; but not a bit dead,” said 
Drizzle : and his brethren — one and all — 
murmured, as though they had been unjus- 
tifiably aroused from their lawTul slumbers. 

“ Well ! what are you going to do with 
her !” asked the woman vehemently. 

“What should we do with her!” cried 
Drizzle. “ She isn’t dead, and she isn’t a 
breaking the peace.” 

“But she will be dead, if she’s left here, 
80 I desire” — 

“ You desire !” said Drizzle, “ and after 
all, what’s your name, and where do you 
come from !” 

“ My name’s Mrs. Aniseed, I live in 
Short’s Gardens — and I come from — the 
Lord ha’ mercy ! what’s that !” she cried 
as something stirred beneath the ends of 
the woman’s shawl, that lay huddled upon 
her lap. With the wmrds, Mrs. Aniseed 
plucked the shawl aside, and discovered a 
sleeping infant. “ What a heavenly babe !” 
she cried : and, truly, the child in its mar- 
ble whiteness looked beautiful ; a lovely hu- 
man bud, — a sweet, unsullied sojourner of 
earth, cradled on the knees of misery and 
vice. 

For an instant, the watchmen in silence 
gazed upon the babe. Even their natures, 
hardened in scenes of crime and destitution, 
were touched by the appealing innocence of 
the child. “ Poor little heart !” said one. 
“ God help it!” cried another. 

Yes ; God help it ! And with such easy 
adjuration do we leave thousands and tens 
of thousands of human souls to want and 
ignorance ; doom them, when yet sleeping 
the sleep of guiltlessness, to future devils — 
their own unguided passions. We make 
them outcasts, wretches ; and then punish, 
in their wickedness, our own selfishness — 
our own neglect. We cry, “ God help the 
babes,” and hang the men. 

Yet a moment. The child is still before 
us. May we not see about it — contending 
for it — the principles of good and evil ! A 
contest between the angels and the fiends ! 
Come hither, statesman ; you who live with- 


in a party circle ; you, who nightly fight 
some miserable fight ; continually strive in 
some selfish struggle for power and place, 
considering men only as tools, the merest 
instruments of your aggrandisement ; come 
here, in the wintry street, and look upon 
God’s image in its babyhood ! Consider 
this little man. Are not creatures such as 
these the noblest, grandest things of earth ? 
Have they not solemn natures — are they not 
subtly touched for the highest purposes of 
human life ! Come they not into this world 
to grace and dignify it ! There is no spot, 
no coarser stuff in the pauper flesh before 
you, that indicates a lower nature. There 
is no felon mark upon it — no natural forma- 
tion indicating the thief in its baby fingers 
— no inevitable blasphemy upon its lips. It 
lies before you a fair, unsullied thing, fresh 
from the hand of God. Will you, without 
an effort, let the great fiend stamp his fiery 
brand upon it ! Shall it, even in its sleep- 
ing innocence, be made a trading thing by 
misery and vice ! A creature borne from 
street to street, a piece of living merchan- 
dise for mingled beggary and crime ! Say ; 
what, with its awakening soul, shall it learn ! 
What lessons whereby to pass through life, 
making an item in the social sum ! Why, 
cunning will be its wisdom ; hypocrisy its 
truth ; theft its natural law of self-preserva- 
tion. To this child, so nurtured, so taught, 
your whole code of morals, nay, your brief 
right and wrong, are writ in stranger fig- 
ures than Egyptian hieroglyphs, and — time 
passes — and you scourge the creature never 
taught, for the heinous guilt of knowing 
nought but ill ! The good has been a seal- 
ed book to him, and the dunce is punished 
with the jail. 

Doubtless, there are great statesmen ; 
wizards in bullion and bank- paper ; think- 
ers profound in cotton, and every turn and va- 
riation of the markets, abroad and at home. 
But there are statesmen yet to come ; states- 
men of nobler aims — of more heroic action ; 
teachers of the people ; vindicators of the 
universal dignity of man ; apostles of the 
great social truth that knowledge, which is 
the spiritual light of God, like his material 
light, was made to bless and comfort all 
men. And when these m.en arise — and it is 
worse than weak, it is sinful, to despair of 
them — the youngling poor will not be bound 
upon the very threshold of human life, and 
made, by want and ignorance, life’s shame 
and curse. There is not a babe lying in the 
public street on its mother’s lap — the uncon- 
scious mendicant to ripen into the criminal 
— that is not a reproach to the state ; a scan- 
dal and a crying shame upon men who study 
all politics, save the politics of the human 
heart. 

To return to the child of our story ; to 
the baby St. Giles : for indeed it is he. 

In a moment, Mrs. Aniseed caught the 


8 


THE HISTORY OF 


infant to her arms ; and pressed it to her I 
cheek. As she did so, she turned pale, and 
tears came into her e)’^es. “ It’s dead,” she 

cried, “ blessed angel ! the cold — the cruel 
cold has killed it.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Drizzle, “ the woman’s 
for killing every thing. It’s no more dead 
than its mother here, and” — and here the 
watchman turned to his companions for coun- 
sel — “ and what are we to do with her 1” 

“We can’t take her to the workhouse,” 
said one, “ it’s past the hour.” 

“ Past the hour !” exclaimed Mrs. Ani- 
seed, still hugging and warming the babe at 
her bosom — “ it isn’t past the hour to die, is 
it I” 

“ You’re a foolish, wiolent woman,” said 
Drizzle. “ I tell you what we must do ; 
we’ll take her to the wateh-house.” 

“ The watch-house !” cried Mrs. Ani- 
seed. “ Poor soul ! what have you got to 
comfort her with there 1” 

“ Comfort ! Well, I’m sure — you do talk 
it strong ! As if women sitting about in 
doorways was to be treated with comfort. 
Howsomever, mates,” said the benevolent 
Drizzle, “ for once we’ll try the work- 
house.” 

With this, two of the watchmen raised 
the woman, and stumbling at almost every 
step, they bore their burden on. “ Make 
haste !” cried Drizzle, doubtless yearning 
for the hospitality of his box, “ make haste : 
if the cold doesn’t bite a man like nippers !” 
And so, shambling along, and violently smit- 
ing in their turn both arms against his sides. 
Drizzle preceded his fellows, and at length 
halted at the work-house. “ It hasn’t a 
werry kindly look, has it 1” he cried, as he 
peered at the mansion of the poor. “ All 
gone to bed, I dare say. And catch any of 
’em getting up such a night as this.” So 
saying. Drizzle pulled manfully at the bell, 
as though fairly to test the powers of attack 
with the power of resistance within. “ The 
governor, and matern, the nusses, the por- 
ter, and all on ’em snoring in lavender.” 
The bare thought of this Elysium added 
strength to Drizzle’s arm, and again he pull- 
ed. “ Had hut elder wine, or dog’s-noses, 
or something o’ the sort, to pull their pre- 
cious nightcaps on!” And again Drizzle 
lugged with renewed purpose. “ They 
think o’ the poor just as much as they think 
o’ meat and ’tatos, — as only things to live 
upon.” And still the work-house bell rang 
a comfortless accompaniment to the watch- 
man’s indignation. “Now, I know it; I 
could swear it” — cried Drizzle — “they’re 
every one on ’em awake ; they can’t be 
otherwise ; wide awake, and thinking how 
precious nice their blankets is, and how cru- 
el cold it is here. Y es ; they hear the bell i 
— ^they do ; they can’t help it ; and they say 
to themselves, there’s some poor devil out- 
side that’s frost-bit and going to die, and 


wants a hot bed, and a dose of brandy and 
all that, to bring the life into him again ; 
and he won’t have it. No — it’s past the 
hours, and he must come again to-morrow. 
That’s what the varmint say” — cried Driz- 
zle with the most confident authority — 
“ that’s what they say to themselves, and 
then they go olf, and sleep all the sweeter 
for knowing it. It’s as good as another 
blanket to ’em — it is,” exclaimed the watch- 
man, gradually excited to a pitch of highest 
indignation by the picture his fancy had ex- 
ecuted, no less than by his abortive exer- 
tions at the work-house bell. “ And now, 
what’s to be done 1” he asked, and then 
speedily answered himself : “ Why, noth- 
ing, but to go to the watch-house.” 

“ And I’ll take the bal^ home with me,” 
said Mrs. Aniseed, “ and warm it, and give 
it something, and—” 

“ Can’t allow that,” said one of the watch- 
men. 

“ Why not, poor lamb !” asked Drizzle, 
suddenly tender. “ She’ll take care of 
it — and what are we to do with it! You 
don’t think she’s going to steal it ]” 

“ Steal it I” cried the indignant Mrs. An- 
iseed. 

“ I should think not,” said Drizzle. — 
“ Folks needn’t steal things o’ that sort, I’m 
sure/; the market’s overloaded with ’em ; 
they’re to be had for nothing, and thank’ee 
too. So, you’ll take care of it till the moth- 
er comes round 1” 

“ To be sure I will, poor dear heart !” 
answered Mrs. Aniseed, hugging the child 
closer. 

“ And your name’s Aniseed, eh 1 Yes I 
And you, live in Short’s Gardens 1 All 
right, to-morrow morning bring the baby to 
the watch-house. We’ve nobody to nurse 
it there, neither wet nor dry.” 

This touch of humor was not lost upon 
the watchmen, for they liberally acknowl- 
edged it with a loud laugh. Then one of 
them, suddenly alive to the humanities of 
his calling, cried, “ Let’s bear a hand with 
the woman, or I’m blessed if she won’t be 
dead outright.” 

And with this, the watchmen bore the mo- 
ther to the watch-house, and Mrs. Aniseed 
hurried with the child to her home. 


CHAPTER II. 

It was past' twelve when Mrs. Aniseed 
reached her abiding-place in Short’s Gar- 
dens : a place, whose name gave warranty 
; of by-gone rusticity ; of a time when St. 
Giles really breathed in the Fields ; when 
blossoming hawthorns offered incense to the 
saint ; when linnets, building in the furze, 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


9 


sang matin hymns to the protector of the 
leper. Many changes has St. Giles beheld : 
other and better changes are, we hope, to 
come. There, in the fields, was good St. 
Giles installed the physician and the com- 
forter of leprosy. Here was he known, and 
prayed to as intercessor between heaven 
and suffering man. Disease, the born thing 
of dirt and poverty, knelt at his shrine and 
begged for health. And years passed on, 
and the disease abated. The plague of 
human kind — arrested by human and knowl- 
edge energy — was smitten down, and the 
leper became a sufferer unknown. And 
then St. Giles gathered about him the child- 
ren of poverty. He became the titular 
saint of rags and squalor. The destitute 
and the criminal — what moralist with nicest 
balance shall separate and weigh the desti- 
tution and the crime 1 — took refuge under 
his protecting wings. The daily hypocrite 
on crutches owned St. Giles for his protec- 
tor ; cheats and mumpers of every sort — 
the town brigands, that with well-aimed 
falsehood make wayfaring compassion stand 
and deliver — dwelt about the shrine of St, 
Giles, and lied and cheated, starved and 
revelled in his name. A St. Giles’s bird 
was a human animal of prey — a raven, a 
kite — a carrion-crow. And once again, the 
saint presided over filth, and its born evil, 
disease ; again, St. Giles was sought by 
lepers, most hideous, ihost incurable — the 
lepers of poverty. 

And — it cannot be doubted — St. Giles 
suffered in reputation from the unseemly 
folks that flocked about him. In the imagi- 
nations of men, he became a low, pauper 
saint ; a saint of vulgar tastes, and vile em- 
ployments ; a saint that was scarcely spoken 
of save in connection with craft, and ill 
manners, and drunkenness, and lying, and 
thieving. Even saints suffer in renown by 
constant association with poverty and wick- 
0(in0ss* 

And then they made St. Giles a hanging 
saint : made him keep a sort of half-way 
house, where he offered the final bowl to 
the Tyburn-bound felon. St. Giles was 
poor, and therefore was he very properly 
assorted with the gallows. That ignominy 
is, however, past. Now St. Giles does not 
offer a comforting draught to thieves : no ; 
he only breeds them. 

And now is St. Giles to be wholly re- 
formed.* He is to be made a cleanly saint. 
His cellars, where his infant votaries are 
begotten for crime, and nurtured for the jail, 
are to be destroyed — annihilated. The de- 
mon typhus is to be killeti with sweet air 
and fresh water. The brotherhood of St. 
Giles are no longer to be of the Blessed 
Order of Filth ; they are to wear linen, and 
wash their hands and faces ! Now, although 
these external changes will by no means 
assimilate the brotherhood of St. Giles to 


the brotherhood of St. James, nevertheless 
it will .somewhat lessen the tremendous dif- 
ference between them. Dirt being the 
natural livery of extreme want, is — at least 
in the thoughts of some folk — a mute, a 
necessary homage to the glitter and beauty 
of money. Now, destroy dirt from among 
the common people, and — it may be urged — 
you take away (what may seem a paradox) 
a very wholesome badge of distinction. 

St. .Tames, with his fingers at his nose, 
has for centuries past waved St. Giles to 
keep to the leeward side of him. May not 
then St. James fear somewhat for his dig- 
nity, when St. Giles, in the full assurance 
of his cleanliness, sidles closer to his west- 
ern brother J 

To our story. 

It was past twelve, when Mrs. Aniseed 
ascended the third flight of stairs that led to 
her home — her one room. A voice was 
heard proceeding from that room — a voice, 
droning a street-ballad of the day. “ Why, 
Susan, I’m blessed if I hadn’t given you' 
up,” said the voice j the owner of it being 
a short, broad-chested block of a man, seat- 
ed before a tolerable fire, which, with half- 
contemplative look, he continued to scrutin- 
ise ; never turning his eye towards the 
partner of his bosom and his hearth. And 
thus, complacently whiffing smoke from a 
ruin of a pipe, he continued to stare at the 
coals, and talk : “ If I didn’t think some- 
body had run away with you. I’ve been 
home this half-hour. Not much luck again 
to-night.” And like a philosopher he took 
up the end of his song. “ Hardly enough 
to pay for the link.” From this the reader 
may gather that Mr. Aniseed followed the 
profession of link-man — a profession, whose 
vested rights have been cruelly abridged by 
the revolutionary introduction of gas. Be 
it further known that Mr. James Aniseed — 
or, as he was popularly recognised. Bright 
Jem — pursued his nightly calling at one of 
the theatres ; and although he never, by any 
chance, made one of the audience, such cir-«; 
cumstance in no way prevented his being — ^ 
when so disposed — a most minute and tren- 
chant critic both on plays and players. But 
to the reader, Bright Jem may not display 
a solitary instance of this faculty. He used 
to say, “ it was all a knack. He could tell 
by the people’s faces when they came out 
whether the thing was good or bad ; or he 
could hear all about it much better at the 
Brown Bear, than if he was in the gallery.” 
He had, moreover, a peculiar mode of esti- 
mating the merits of new dramas, or new 
actors ; namely, by the amount of the profits 
of his link. Hence, with him, Pizarro was 
for a long time a much higher flight of 
genius than Hamlet. “ When people was 
most pleased,” he said, “ they gave away 
most money.” Yes: his amount of indi- 
vidual gain was the standard of dramatic 


10 


THE HISTORY OF 


V excellence. In the opinion of Bright Jem, 
Shakspeare rose and fell with the sixpences. 
And we fear that on this point — though all 
unconsciously — Bright Jem copied very 
worshipful authorities. 

“ Hovvsomever,” said Jem, as though 
still talking to the fire, “ I’ve got something 
for you.” 

“ And I’ve got something for you, Jem,” 
said his wife, seating herself before him. 
“ Giles's what it is.” 

“ No : I never guess with a woman,” said 
Jem: ‘‘ a man has no chance.” And then 
he asked, “What is it I” ' 

“Look here,” cried his wife, unfolding 
her apron, and discovering the sleeping 
babe. 

Bright Jem jumped from his seat, and 
now looking at the child — and now in his 
wife’s face — asked, with solemn voice and 
uplifted eyebrows, “ Where did you get 
it?” 

“ I found it, Jem,” said the woman. 

“ F ound it ! W ell, next time, when luck’s 
upon you, I hope you’ll find something bet- 
ter.” And then, with his forefinger he 
touched the baby’s cheek, and said some- 
vhat tenderly, “ Dear little heart !” 

“ Can’t you see who it's like, Jem I” ask- 
ed Mrs. Aniseed, and her eyes softened. 

“Why it’s like all babies,” answered Jem. 
“ I never see any difference in ’em ; all the 
same, like Dutch cheeses.” 

“Ha ! Jem,” said Mrs. Aniseed, “you’ve 
never been a mother.” 

“ No,” said Jem, very decidedly. 

“ Else you’d have seen that it’s as like 
our dear lost Dick as one angel’s like an- 
other.” 

“Not a bit — not a bit,” said Jem in 
words ; but his tone and manner said, “ And 
so it is.” 

“ Oh, I saw it — in a minute, Jem ; and I 
see it now, dear little fellow. He’d ha’ 
been dead, stone-dead in the morning, if I 
hadn’t come up as I did !” 

And Jem, placing his hands upon his 
knees, and staring in his wife’s face, asked, 
“ And where did you find him I” Where- 
upon, Mrs. Aniseed — with commendable 
brevity for her sex — narrated the incident 
of discovery, already known to the reader. 

“Well, poor little chap,” said Jem, re- 
suming his seat and his pipe, “ he’s welcome 
to board and lodging for one night.” 

Mrs. Aniseed made no answer. It was 
the more extraordinary in her, inasmuch as 
she had. one at her tongue’s-end. However, 
as the child began to wake, she bustled about 
the room, and soon prepared for it a suffici- 
ency of supper. In a surprisingly few 
minutes, she had the child upon her lap, with 
its bare legs almost roasting at the fire, and 
with more than infantine energy, trying to 
swallow the victuals, spoon and all. 

“Why, if he doesn’t eat like a young 


sparrow,” said Jem, eyeing the little feeder 
askance. “ He’s not strange in a strange 
place, any how.” 

“Oh, Jem!” cried Mrs. Aniseed, as 
though she was unburthening her heart of 
its dearest wish — “ Oh, Jem, how I should 
like to keep it !” Jem said nothing; but 
slowly taking the pipe from his mouth, he 
looked all the amazement he was master of. 
Of course his wife took no notice of this. 
She merely continued: “I’m sure, Jem, 
the dear little soul would bring a blessing 
on us.” 

“Yes, and another belly to fill; and an- 
other back to cover ; and two more feet to 
shoe ; and” — and we know not what inven- 
tory of obligations Jem would have made 
out ; but his wife — a fine tractician — ^began 
to chirrup, and cry to the child, and make 
all those legendary noises of the nursery, 
faithfully handed down to us from the time 
that Eve nursed Cain. Jem was in a mo- 
ment silenced. Whereupon, in due time, 
Mrs. Aniseed set the child up, and then 
danced it in the very face of Jem, calling 
upon him to remark its extraordinary love- 
liness, and by consequence, its extraordinary 
resemblance to their lost Dick. 

“ He’s a sharp little shaver,” said Jem, 
gently pinching the baby’s cheeks — when 
the baby laughed. 

“ If it doesn’t seem to know what you 
say, Jem,” cried Mrs. Aniseed ; and then, 
with new vehemence, she added, “ Some- 
thing tells me it would, be lucky to us.” 

“ Nonsense, woman !” cried Jem ; “how 
can we afford such fancies! You’ll be 
thinking of keeping pug-dogs and parrots 
next. Besides, it’s impossible, with the 
playhouse going down as it is.” 

Mrs. Aniseed ceased to urge her point, 
and thereby showed her admirable knowl- 
edge, if not of human nature, of the nature 
of her lord and master ; for he was tenaci- 
ous of his authority, and never directly 
ceded it upon any of his wife’s arguments, 
however wise and subtle. No : when he 
gave up a point, he chose to surrender it as 
the sole working — the pure result of his 
own wisdom, taking counsel with itself, un- 
awed by the smaller wisdom of the weaker 
vessel. Therefore, when Mrs. Aniseed 
found that her husband gave way, even one 
step, she paused, lest by following him, he 
should be piqued to retrace more than the 
ground he had lost. 

“ I’ve been quite in the way of babies to- 
night,” said Mrs. Aniseed ; “ young mas- 
ter’s come to town.” ^ 

“ Oh, a boy, is it !” grumbled Jem. 
“ Well, he’s a better chance of it than that 
little chap.” Mrs. Aniseed drew a very 
long, deep sigh, intending it for an emphatic 
affirmation. “ He’s a good big gold spoon 
in his mouth already. Humph! — a boy, ia 
it! And what, after all, Mrs. Aniseed, 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


11 


what business had you there ? You know 
I don’t like it — and you will go.” 

^ Now this remonstrance applied to the 
visits of Mrs. Aniseed to a certain house in 
St. James’s-square ; at which house a 
younger spinster sister of the linkman’s wife 
flourished as under kitchen maid. She was, 
however, sufficiently ennobled by the genius 
loci to have a very commendable contempt 
for St. Giles’s, and all its dwellers ; and on 
certain occasions had not scrupled to express 
her wonderment that her sister, “who after 
all was not sich a very plain gal,” should 
ever have taken up with so low a husband 
as a nasty linkman. She had somehow^ 
compared the big bouquets of the footman 
with the pitch and hemp with which Bright 
Jem was wont to earn what she called “his 
low, dirty bread,” and her nice sense of 
sweetness was grievously offended by the 
foul contrast. Sometimes, too, out of purest 
condescension, Kitty Muggs — for Muggs 
was the virgin name which no odoriferous 
footman had as yet robbed her of — would 
visit Short’s Gardens. At such times, it 
was impossible for her not to make it known 
to St. Giles the vast debt of gratitude due 
from it to §t. James : a debt which Bright 
Jem — as one of the representatives of the 
meaner locality — never by the smallest in- 
stalment ever permitted himself to pay. 

“ As for Kitty, he was always very glad 
to see her if she’d leave her nonsense be- 
hind her : but she always walked into the 
room as if she walked upon eggs ; always 
brushed the chair afore she’d sit down ; and 
always moved with her petticoats lifted up, 
as if the white honest deal boards of the 
floor was so much gutter-mud. And then 
the tea was always so coarse, and not a bit 
like their gunpowder ; and the bacon was 
rusty, not a bit like their hams ; and in fact 
there was nothing, no, not even the flesh 
and blood of Short’s Gardens, at all like the 
flesh and blood of the West-End. Why 
didn’t she keep to her own dripping, and not 
cast her nose up like a flounder’s tail, at the 
clean, wholesome food of other people 1 He 
hated all such stuff ; and what’s more, he 
wouldn’t have it.” Such, again and again, 
had been the words of Bright Jem ; and he 
never heard of the sisterly visits of his wife 
ta the aristocratic kitchen-maid, that he 
didn’t protest against them. 

“ Well,” said Mrs. Aniseed, “ she’s the 
only relation I have in the wmrld, and I can’t 
help seeing her. Poor girl ! she’s young 
and giddy, but she doesn’t mean nothing.” 

“ Young and giddy !” cried Jem ; “ w^ell, 
I don’t know at what time of life geese 
leave off their giddiness, but she’s old 
eiiough to be the mother of a good many 
goslings. Got a boy, have they 1 — ha ! 
they’ve been wanting one long enough. 
Got a young St. James 1 Well, babies in 
that quarter may be made of finer sort of 


stuff than hereabouts ; but he can hardly be 
a handsomer little thing than young St. 
Giles here.” Saying this, Jem held out his 
arms, and in an instant Mrs. Aniseed had 
placed the baby in them. “Well, he is a 
capital little fellow,” cried Jem. “ Has he 
done sucking, 1 wonder 1” 

“ To be sure he has,” averred Mrs. Ani- 
seed on her own responsibility. “ Didn’t 
you see how he ate 1” 

“ A lively little dog, isn’t he 1” and Jem 
danced the child upon his knee, and snapped 
his fingers at it, and the child leapt up, and 
laughed, and crowed. And then Jem look- 
ing sadly at the infant, said, “ And he is 
like poor little Dick. I see it now, Susan ; 
he is like Dick.” 

Mrs. Aniseed made no answer ; but with 
great alacrity bustled about the room, and 
prepared supper. Such preparation was 
soon made. “ Now Pll take him — you can’t 
eat with him in your lap,” she said. 

“ Let him be ; I’ll manage it — I used to 
do it once. Well,' well — w'hat’s gone can’t 
be helped. It’s no use a grievin’, Susan, 
is it 1 — no, not a bit. If times w'asn’t so 
bad, now — to be sure he won’t take much 
as he is ; but then he’ll grow bigger, and — 

“ And I’m sure he’d be a comfort to us,” 
cried Mrs. Aniseed, “ he looks like it.” 

“ If he isn’t fast asleep — Lord ! Lord !” 
cried Jem, gazing at the child, “ who to 
look upoma sleeping baby, and to know what 
things are every day done in the vrorld, 
would ever think that all men were sleep- 
ing babes once. Put it to bed. Sue ; stop a 
minute” — and Jem tenderly kissed the child. 
Then turning round, and looking in the fire, 
he said to himself, “ it is like little Dick.” 

Though late When she went to bed, Mrs. 
Aniseed was in the morning an early riser. 
She had prepared breakfast, and had fed her 
bahy charge before her husband was stir- 
ring ; and it was plain had determined with- 
in herself to place' all things in the very ro- 
siest light before the eyes of her helpmate. 
She had already conned and got by heart 
twenty different arguments to prove the ex- 
ceeding comfort — nay, the ultimate profit, 
the child would be to them. And with 
these arguments simmering in her head, she 
moved actively about, setting the room in 
order at the same time expressing the most 
endearing pantomine to the infant that lay 
rolling before the fire. Never since the 
first quarter of her honeymoon had Mrs. 
Aniseed shown herself in sweeter temper. 
Bright Jem was not slow to feel its influ- 
ence. “ Why, Susan, you’re as lively as 
May-day this morning,” said he, commenc- 
ing his toilette. “ Where’s the little chap I” 

“ There he is, bless him !” cried Mrs. 
Aniseed, “ and as much at home as if he’d 
been born here. Well, I don’t know — I 
never thought I could love any baby again 
after Dick.” 


12 


THE HISTORY OF 


“ Pooh ! women can love no end o’ ba- I 
bies,” said Jem. “ They’re made a pur- 
pose for it.” Jem seated himself to break- 
fast, yet ere he began his meal, recreated 
himself by tickling the child at his foot with 
his fore-finger, to the mutual delectation of 
baby and man ; whilst Mrs. Aniseed, paus- 
ing in a half-cut slice of bread-and-butter, 
looked over the table, quite delighted with 
the sport. How she laughed — and how fre- 
quently she assured Jem that she always 
said he was the best nurse in the world. 
She then remained solely attentive to the 
duties of the table, until Jem having achiev- 
ed his morning bacon, turned himself round, 
and with his elbows upon his knees, looked 
thoughtfully dpwn upon the clild. 

“ Well, that’s a better place than a door- 
step, any how,” said Jem, as the baby kick- 
ed before the fire. 

“ Yet that’s what it must come to again, 
Jem, if we’re hard-hearted enough to turn 
it out.” 

“ Humph ! It’s a shame they should be 
born. Sue ; a downright shame,” said Jem 
mournfully. 

“'La ! how can the man talk such wick- 
edness !” cried Mrs. Aniseed. 

“I always think so, when I see ’em run- 
ning about — poor dirty creturs — as if they’d 
been spawned in gutter-mud.” 

“ With nobody to teach them nothing,” 
.chimed in Mrs. Aniseed. • 

“ Oh, yes ; they all of ’em go to school, 
such as it is,” cried Jem bitterly. 

“I’m sure, Jem, they don’t,” said his 
wife. “There ar’n’t schools enough for 
’em ; and then again how many of their pa- 
rents don’t care whether they know no more 
than headstrong pigs.” 

“ Oh, yes ; they all listen to a schoolmas- 
ter. I’ve seen him talking among ’em un- 
der gateways, and in corners, and in courts, 
and afore shop-windows, and in all sorts o’ 
places in the streets ; yes, a schoolmaster 
teaching little things — and how they do 
learn, to be sure — no taller than that and 
he Jem, with impressive action, held up a 
wire toasting-fork. 

“ I never heard of him in the parish,” said 
Mrs. Aniseed ; “ what schoolmaster do you 
mean 1” 

“ The devil, Susan, the devil : I’ve seen 
him among children, horns, tail, and all — 
ha ! quite as nat’ral as he’s shewn in any 
pantomine — I’ve seen him as plain, as I see 
you ; and whilst he’s been teaching ’em, I’ve 
seen beside him. Jack Ketch a-grinning, 
and a rubbin’ his hands, and a smacking his 
mouth like a fellow as sees a hearty meal, 
and wants to fall to. I say it, Susan, and 
I’ll stand to it — it’s a shame they’re born,” 

“ Won't it be a blessed thing to snatch 
this darling eretur — if it doesn’t look sensi- 
ble as though it knew what we was talkin’ 
of— this pretty eretur from all such trouble, 


all such wickedness I” asked Mrs. Aniseed, 
moving closer to her husband. 

“ Why, there was little Tom Jumper”— 
mused Jem — “ and pretty Jack Needles— 
and that sarcy little chap, but no real harm 
in him at first. Bob Winkin — didn’t you and 
me know ’em all ] And wasn’t they all ru- 
ined afore they knew what ruin was?— 
Where are they now 1 Why, ask Newgate 
— ask Newgate,’’ said Jem, moodily. “And 
that’s what they’ll do with you, my little 
codger” — and Jem nodded to the infant — 
“ that’s what they’ll do with you. I can see 
it — though it’s a good many years off yet— 
I can see the rope about your little neck as 
sure — ” 

“ La, Jem !” screamed Mrs. Aniseed ; 
and she instantly seized the baby in her 
arms, and hugged it to her breast, as though 
to protect it from immediate peril. 

“ Why, what an old fool you are !” said 
Jem, wanly smiling at his wife. 

“ Well, you shouldn’t talk in that way,” 
answered Mrs. Aniseed, “ it’s tempting 
Providenoe* If you’re such a fortune-tel- 
ler, and can see so much, it’s a bound duty 
upon you, Jem, to prevent it.” Jem was si- 
lent : therefore his wife — true to her sex — 
talked on : “You ought to go down upon 
your knees, and bless yourself that you can 
make this darling lamb your own, and save 
it.” 

Jem was silent a minute ; and then spoke 
somewhat briskly on the inspiration of a new 
thought. “ It’s all very well about lambs, 
my dear ; but how do we know tliey’ll let 
us have it? How do We know that its 
mother — ” 

“ It hasn’t no mother, Jem. I slipt out 
afore you woke, and I run down to the 
watchhouse, and its mother died in the night, 
Jem ; I thought she couldn’t live. It’s a 
hard thing to say, but it’s no loss to the 
child ; she’s gone, and I won’t say nothing 
about her; but them as know her give her 
shocking words. So here’s the child, Jem, 
a begging of you, with all its little might” — 
and here the woman put the baby’s hands 
together— “ to take it, and to do all you can 
for it, and to be sure that our little, under 
such a blessing, will never grow less ; and 
here it is — isn’t it like our dear Dick, Jem ? 
—here it is, a praying you to take pity on 
it, and love it, and be a father to it. And 
you will, Jem ? — you will ?” cried the wo- 
man, the tears coming into her eyes, as she 
held the infant towards her husband. 

Now Bright Jem was in face and figure as 
uncomely a lump of humanity as is ordinarily 
met with in any one day’s travel. His fiat, 
broad face was the color of ancient parch- 
ment, thinly sprinkled with deep pock-marks. 
His mouth was capacious as a horse -shoe. 
Short brush bristles thatched his head ; and 
his eye-brows, clubbing together, could not 
have mustered fifty hairs between them. 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


13 


His small, deep-set black eyes — truly black, 
for there seemed no white to them — were 
the lamps that lighted up with quick and , 
various expression this most difficult counten- 
ance ; and, in the present instance, did cer- 
tainly appear as though they twinkled with 
a fine, direct from the heart. Jem was an 
ugly man. He knew it. This truth had 
been so frequently, so earnestly, so plainly 
impressed upon him, that — slow as most men 
are in such belief — he could not but believe 
it. More : we believe that he was quite 
contented with the creed. There are times, 
however, when ugliness may steal a look — 
a tint from beauty. We believe that no wo- 
man — if she marry for love — let her be ugly 
as Sibyl, looks altogether ugly on her wed- 
ding-day. How it is done, whence it comes, 
we have not the philosophy to fathom ; but 
sure we are that the spirit of beauty does 
sometimes irradiate the features of deformity, 
melting and moulding them into momentary 
comeliness, — and most sure we are, that the 
said spirit did, with its best doing, shine in 
the countenance of Jem, as his wife pressed 
the orphan child upon him. 

“You’ll love it, and be a father to it!” 
again cried Mrs. Aniseed. 

“ If I don’t,” cried Jem, “ I’m — ” but the 
wife stopped whatever word was coming, by 
putting the child’s face to Jem’s mouth ; and 
he took the creature in his arms, and hugged 
it fondly, nay, vigorously. 

And now is young St. Giles snatched from 
the lowest round of the ladder — (can it be 
Jacob’s ladder that, resting on the mud of a 
cellar, is still to lead to heaven ?) — Now is 
he caught from direst destitution ; from the 
teaching of hypocrisy, and craft, and crime, 
to have about him comforts — though small 
comforts it is true ; to be no longer shown, 
the image of poverty — a thing of human 
flesh and blood to beg halfpence upon ? Is 
he really to be promoted from the foul, dark 
vault of a loathsome lane — savage beasts 
have sweeter sleeping-places — to the whole- 
someness, the light, the airiness, the respect- 
ability of a three-pair front, in Short’s Gar- 
dens ? To that very three-pair front which 
Kitty Muggs, of St. James’s-square, looks 
down upon from her scullery with all the 
loftiness of contempt ? Yes, it is true : St. 
Giles will be promoted. On the dunghill of 
poverty, how great the distinction between 
the layers of straw : what a world of differ- 
ence between base, half-way and summit 1 
There is an aristocracy of rags, as there is 
an aristocracy of stars and garters. 

Alas ! for only one minute is young St. 
Giles housed in his neyv home — for only one 
minute is he the adopted babe of James and 
Susan Aniseed, when he is called back to 
act his unconscious part of mendicant, when 
he is reclaimed, carried away in bondage, 
the bom slave of penury and wrong. It is 
even so. 


Before Jem had ceased caressing the child, ’ 
he heard an unusual hubbub on the stair- 
case ; another instant, and his door was flung 
open, and a wretched, ragged woman — worn, 
thin, and ghastly — staggered into the room, 
followed by other women. “My babe — my 
own babe,” cried the first woman, and was 
falling in a heap upon the floor, when Jem 
rapidly placing the child in his wife’s arms, 
caught the intruder. Aroused, excited be- 
yond her strength, she pointed to the child, 
tried to speak, and then fainted. 

The cause of this interruption was soon 
made known to Jem. “ The dear soul had 
come after her child.” 

“Her child !” cried Mrs. Aniseed. “She’s 
not the child’s mother, and she shan’t have 
it. I saw the mother last night — saw her 
frozen to death — at least she died soon after- 
wards.” 

“ Why, you see,” said an old crone, “ this 
is how it is. The dear woman there, that’s 
the darling’s mother, was sick of a fever — 
the Lord help us, she’s sick now, and so is 
half the lane. VVell, you see, being so sick, 
she couldn’t go out herself not by any means. 
Well, and so she lends the child to Peggy 
Flit ; and when Peg never came back at aU, 
the poor cretur that’s there went wtell nigh 
mad. And this morning, we found at the 
watchhouse that Peg was dead ; and that 
you had got the babe, and you see we’ve 
come for it, that’s all,” said the harridan, 
with remarkable diplomatic precision. 

“But if she’s the mother,” asked Mrs. 
Aniseed, “ for what should she lend the 
child ?” 

“For what should she lend the child!” 
crowed the old woman, looking very con- 
temptuously at her catechist — “ for what 
should she lend, — why, in the name of bless- 
ed heaven, for what else, if not to beg with 
it?” 

In fine — ^for why should we protract the 
scene — young St. Giles, the unconscious 
beggar, was borne back in triumph to Hamp- 
shire Hog Lane. 


CHAPTER HI. 

It would be a tedious work for the reader, 
did we chronicle every event of the long 
life of little St. Giles, from the hour that he 
was snatched from .Short’s Gardens, until 
time beheld him in the mature manhood of 
seven years old. A long life in sooth, that 
six years and a half ; for how much had St. 
Giles accomplished in it ! What a stride 
had he made in existence, passing over 
childish days — childish ignorance ; exempt, 
by fortune of his birth, from all the puerili- 
ties, the laughing thoughtlessness of baby- 


14 


THE HISTORY OF 


hood. He was now a suckling, and now a | 
dwarfed man. There was no dallying | 
pause, no middle space for him, to pliy with | 
life, knowing not his playmate — no bit of 
green sward, with flowers for toys. Oh, 
no ! he was made, with sudden violence, to 
know life. He saw not the lovely thing 
life, through golden shadows, roseate hues ; 
he looked not at it through the swimming 
eyes of childhood, — a glorious thing to be 
approached through what seem beauties 
numberless, that gradually fade and fade as 
we advance upon the green uplands of time, 
unveiling to us by degrees the cold, hard, 
naked truth — the iron image, life. St. Giles 
had no such preparation. Suddenly, and 
with the merciless strength of want, he was 
made to look on life in its fiercest, foulest 
aspect. He saw at once the grim idol he 
had to serve, and all unconsciously, he serv- 
ed it. Unconsciously, too, he carried in his 
look, his air, his speech, a premature wis- 
dom. He had learned, as .at once, his whole 
task ; but the suddenness of the teaching 
had wiped out childhood from his face : he 
had paid at one sum, although he knew it 
not, the price of life, for life’s worst knowl- 
edge. 

How very differently did young St. James 
con his lesson, life ! In reality, only six 
months younger than his squalid brother — 
for in this story St. Giles and St. James 
must fraternize — he was still the veriest 
babe. Why, it was gladness to the heart 
to look at him — to hear his blithe voice — to 
see him, in that happy freedom of infancy, 
when children play in the vestibule of life — 
as children sometimes play with flowers 
picked from graves in a church porch ; 
heedless whence they pluck their pleasures, 
thoughtless of the mystery of mysteries 
taught within. And what prophecies — with 
what “ sweet breath composed” — were ut- 
tered to his glorification ! What a man he 
would make ! What a blessing he would 
prove to his begetters ! What a treasure 
to the world at large ! And so, young St. 
James, fed with the sweetest and the best, 
clothed with the softest and the richest-^ 
fondled, kissed, caressed — was, in truth, a 
glorious creature. There was happiness, 
delicate beauty, in his soft pink and white 
cheek — innocence, intelligence, in his large, 
laughing eyes. All he knew of the world 
was, that it was one large play-place filled 
with many-sorted toys; with battledores, 
humming-tops, and rocking-horses. Com- 
pared with young St. Qiles, how very ignor- 
ant ! 

In something more than the six years 
elapsed since our last chapter, St. Giles had 
made more profitable use of time. But then 
he had had the sharpest teachers — and so 
many opportunities ! Hunger and cold were 
his tutors, and rapid and many are the de- 
grees of human knowledge conferred by 


them, albeit their scholars are not prone to 
brag of their learning. Young St. James 
was bounded by the garden, or the parks ; 
or when he saw and heard the hurry and 
roar of London, took his imperfect lessons 
through a carriage-window. Now, St. 
Giles — the matured, seven years’ adult — 
was a busy actor in the great mart of men. 
Every day he carried some new lie to mar- 
ket, played some new part, in obedience to 
the fiend in his bowels, that once a day at 
least cried “eat, eat.” And sometimes, 
too, the fiend would vary his cry, and after 
long grumbling, long suffering, too, would 
mutter “steal, steal.” And what was there 
in the word to appal St. Giles? Nothing; 
he had heard it so early : it was to him an 
old familiar sound — a household syllable. 
True it is, he had heard that it was wrong 
to steal : he had heard many other things, 
too, that were wrong ; many that were 
right. But somehow they were jumbled in 
that little active brain of his. He could 
not separate them. He supposed there 
were some people whose business in the 
world it was to steal ; just as there were 
some people born to fine houses and fine 
clothes, — and some only born to cellars and 
rags. And so, wicked St. Giles would 
pilfer — such is human iniquity — with no 
more conscience than a magpie. 

With this preface, touching the advanced 
years and various accomplishments of our 
heroes, let us now continue our broken nar- 
rative. 

One of the seven airiest and iinest streets 
that compose the Seven Dials — for we care 
not to name the exact spot — boasted the ad- 
vent of a tradesman, who employed the 
whole vigor of his mind, and he himself 
thought not meanly'of it, on the manufac- 
ture of muffins. At the time of our present 
chapter, Mr. Capstick had only lived a 
twelvemonth under the protection of St. 
Giles ; paying the Saint due parish rates 
for such advantage. Where Mr. Capstick 
came from, nobody knew. It was plain, he 
was one of those people^who now and then 
drop from the sky into a neighborhood, for 
no other end than to adorn and dignify it. 
At least, it was plain that Mr. Capstick 
thought as much ; and he was not a man to 
disguise his thoughts when they at all tend- 
ed to his self-glorification. True it was, 
muffins had been known in St. Giles’s ere 
Mr. Capstick lighted his oven there. But 
what muffins ! How, too, were they made 
— where vended ? Why, as Mr. Capstick 
would observe, they were made as if they 
were bad halfpence — and they were quite as 
hard to chew — in guilt and darkness. No- 
body knew what they were eating. Now, 

I all the world might see him make his muf- 
fins. Indeed, he would feel obliged to the 
world if it would take that trouble. To be 
sure, he was throwing his muffins to swine 


I 




ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 15 


— ^but he couldn’t help that. It wasn’t his I 
nature to do anything that wasn’t hrst rate : 
he knew he was a loser by it ; all men who 
did so were ; nevertheless, a man who was 
a true man would go on ruining himself for 
the world, though he might hate the world 
all the time he was doing it. Nevertheless, 
his muffins were open to the universe. 
There was no mystery in him, none at all. 
And then he would say, glowing at times 
with a strange eloquence, “ What a glorious 
thing it would be for the world, if every 
man made his muffin — whatever that muffin 
might be — in the open light of heaven ; and 
not in a cupboard, a hole, a corner! It was 
making muffins in secret, and in darkness, 
that made three patts of the misery of man- 
kind.” When people heard Mr. Capstick 
discourse after this fashion, they would con- 
fidentially declare to one another, that it 
was plain he was born above his business ; 
he was a broken-down gentleman ; perhaps 
come of a Jacobite family, and made muffins 
to hide his disgrace. True it was, there 
was a pompousness, a swagger, an affected 
contempt of the people with whom he turn- 
ed the penny, that gave some warranty for 
these opinions. Nevertheless, Mr. Cap- 
stick, with all his consequence, all his mis- 
anthropy, — and he wore his hatred of man- 
kind as he would have worn a diamond ring, 
as a thing at once to put in the' best light, 
and to be very proud of — was a great favor- 
ite. The cellars >)f St.* Giles’s echoed his 
praises. He was, in his way, a great bene- 
factor to his poorest neighbors. “You see, 
Mary Anne,” he would say to his wife, 
“ what a blessing there is in corn. When 
muffins are too stale to sell, they’re always 
good enough to give away.” And these 
remainder muffins he would frequently be- 
stow upon the veriest needy, accompanied 
with phrases that spoke his contempt of 
human nature, his particular nature in- 
cluded. 

Such was Mr. Capstick — such was the 
self-important muffin-maker — whom we hav e 
now to introduce to the reader. The time 
was about two o’clock on a gusty March 
afternoon ; and Mr. Capstick stood erect 
behind his counter, evidently strung for 
some important task. There was a weight 
of meaning in his broad, white face ; and a 
big black cap, selected it would seem with 
an eye to the picturesque, impending over 
his brow, imparted to it a severity not to be 
lost upon vulgar beholders. Having thrust 
his hands and^ialf his arms into his breeches 
pockets — as though to place himself firmly 
on his centre — the muffin-maker proceeded 
to interrogate a child before him, speaking 
very loud, and frowning very significantly 
the while. The child, reader, was young 
St. Giles. You left him when he was a 
nursling ; and the boy man — the natural 
growth growing in such a soil, of the help- 


less, untaught, untended infant — stands be- 
fore you. He is puny and dwarfed ; a mis- 
erable little chit in his anatomy ; but his 
sharp, fox-like face — his small black eyes, 
now looking bashfulness, and now brighten- 
ing with impudence — his voice, now coax- 
ing, and now drawling — prove him to be an 
almost equal match for his hurley questioner, 
the clever, pompous, world-knowing muffin- 
maker. 

“ So ; you are the little dog that came 
begging of me in Bow-street 1” growled 
Capstick. 

“ I’m the werry dog, sir,” answered St. 
Giles, in no way daunted by Capstick’s 
thunder. 

“ Don’t you know that boys oughtn’t to 
beg 1 Don’t you know that I could have 
you sent to jail for begging 1 Eh 1 Don’t 
you know thatl'’ asked the muffin-maker 
very loudly. 

“ Yes, sir ; I knows it, sir,” replied the 
child, with a wonderful knowledge of law. 

“ And if you know better, why don’t you 
do better said Capstick. 

“ Don’t know what better is, sir,” return- 
ed St. Giles, looking down at the floor, and 
shuffling his feet. 

“ Humph!” mused Capstick, and then he 
somewhat gently asked, “ should you like 
to learn it, my little boy 1” 

“ Isn’t it werry hard, sir I” inquired St. 
Giles. “ Don’t like hard learning, sir.” 

“ What, you’ve tried, have youl You’ve 
been to school, eh ? You can write a little, 
and read a little 1” said the muffin-maker. 

“No, sir; never went to school; never 
had time, sir. Besides, sir, father always 
used to say, school was so werry dummy.” 

“ Dummy I What’s dummy 1” cried the 
muffin-maker. 

Young S^. Giles leered up in Capstick’s 
faci, and then giving himself a twist as 
though enjoying the tradesman’s ignorance, 
the boy said — “ Not know what dummy is ! 
Why, sir, if you please, dummy’s 

“ Oh! then you know Jlash?^' asked Cap- 
stick of his infant teacher. 

“ I know a little, sir,” replied St. Giles, 
very modestly : “ know more when I grows 
bigger.” 

“ I dare say you will,” cried the muffin- 
maker, pityingly. “ And tell me, what’s 
your father doing now 1” 

“ He’s a doing nothing now, sir.’’ 

“ No !” said Capstick. 

“No, sir — he’s dead,” said St. Giles; 
but whether the child spoke in simplicity or 
jest, it passed the penetration of the muffin- 
maker to discover. 

“ And you’ve never been taught to do 
anything 1 Poor little wretch !” cried Cap- 
stick. 

It was plain that young St. Giles reject- 
ed the compassion of the muflin-maker ; for 
he immediately, and wfith much volubility, 


I 


I 

16 THE HISTORY OP 


asserted : “ I knows a good many things, 
sir ; sometimes, sir, goes singing o’ ballads 
with Tom Blast : was to have gone with 
him to-day; only Tom’s so precious hoarse, 
crying dying speeches yesterday. Then I 
knows how to sell matches, and hold osses, 
and do a many things, sir, as I forget now.” 

Capstick looked at the urchin for a few 
moments, then leaning over the counter, and 
beckoning St. Giles closer, he said to him 
ia a tone of tenderness, — “ You’d like to be 
a good boy; wouldn’t you I” 

“ A course, sir,” answered St. Giles, with 
stolid face. 

“ And so be a good man : and so at last 
get a nice shop, such as this, eh 1 You’d 
like it, eh 1” 

“ Wouldn’t I though !” cried St. Giles, 
playing with his hair and grinning. 

“ Instead of wandering about the streets — 
and singing ballads — and going along with 
boys, that at last may lead you to be hang- 
edl” 

“ I saw Bill Filster hung, yesterday,” cri- 
ed St. Giles sharply, and his eyes sparkled 
as with the recollection of the treat. 

“ Oh Lord ! oh Lord !” groaned the muf- 
fin-maker. “ You little rascal ! who took 
you 1” 

“ Went with some big boys,” answered 
the unabashed St. Giles. “ I give Phil 
Slant a happle to let me set upon his should- 
ers. Bill Filster used to live in our lane. 
Poor Bill ! It was so prime.” 

The mutlin-maker spasmodically whipped 
his cap from his head, and drawing a long 
breath, wiped his brows ; the while he look- 
ed at young St. Giles, with pity, and some- 
thing like bitterness. The next moment he 
cried to himself, “ Poor little wretch ! Poor 
little animal !” 

“ I know’d Bill Filster. Once he lived 
in our lane. Oh, couldn’t he sing a song ! 
He teached me one about Dick Turpin. 
Sometimes,” said St. Giles, bending his 
small quick eyes on Capstick, “ sometimes 
people have given me a penny to sing it.” 

The muffin-maker made no reply ; but 
with a lofty waving of the hand — immedi- 
ately understood by St. Giles — commanded 
silence. Then did Mr. Capstick walk up 
and down behind his counter, self-commun- 
ing. Put his flying thoughts into words, 
and they would read somewhat as follows : 
— “ A little scoundrel ! Poor wretch, how 
can he help it I What’s he been taught 1 
Wrong, wrong ; nothing but wrong. There’s 
a manner in the .little villain, too, that pro- 
mises something better. He’s but a babe ! 
Poor miserable thing ! and what a knowing 
little rascal ! Well, it won’t ruin me — thank 
God ! — it can’t ruin me.” And then Mr. 
Capstick again laid himself across the coun- 
ter, and said a little sternly to young St. 
Giles — “ Come here, you sir.” 

“ Yes, sir,” said St. Giles, stepping up to 


the muffin-maker, and looking confidently in 
the face of his patron. 

“ If I was to be your friend, and try to 
save you from being hanged — there, don’t 
cry,” — for St. Giles affecting sensibility had 
already raised his arms to his eyes — “ If I 
was to save you from being hanged, for else 
you’re pretty sure to come to it, would you 
be a good boy, eh 1” 

“ Oh, wouldn’t I sir !” cried St. Giles. 
“ I jest would then.” 

“ Well — do you think you could sell muf- 
fins 1” And this question Mr. Capstick put 
in a low, cautious voice, with his eye turned 
watchfully towards the back parlour, as 
though he feared some sudden detection. - 

“I should like it so!” cried young St. Giles, 
rubbing his hands. 

Capstick was evidently taken with the 
boy’s alacrity for the profession, for he quick- 
ly said — “ Then I’ll make a man of you. 
Yes ; I’ll set you up in business.” With 
these words Capstick produced a small bas- 
ket from behind the counter. “ Be a good 
boy, now,” he said, “ an honest boy, and this 
basket may some day or other grow into a 
big shop. Understand ; you can understand, 
I know, for you’ve a lot of brains of some 
sort in your eyes, I can see. Understand, 
that if you’re civil and pains-taking your 
fortune’s made. This is the best chance 
you ever had of being a man. Here’s a bas- 
ket, and a bell,” — for in the days we write 
of, the muffin-bell was not unmusical to le- 
gislative ears — “ and two dozzen muffins. — 
You’ll get two shillings for ’em, for they’re 
baker’s dozens. Then come here to-mor- 
row ; I’ll set you up again, and give you a 
lumping profit for yourself. There’s the 
goods and Capstick with exceeding gra- 
vity, placed the basket in one hand of St. 
Giles, and a small metal bell in the other. 
“ Tell me, my boy, did you ever see Lord 
Mayor’s show 1” 

“ Yes, sir ; many times,” said the seven 
year old St. Giles. 

“ And the Lord Mayor in his gold coach, 
and the trumpeters before him, and all that I 
Now, attend to me” — and the muffin-maker 
became still more grave. “ Attend to me. 
There’s many a Lord Mayor who never had 
the start you have — who never was so lucky 
to begin life upon muffins. So when bad 
boys come about you and want you to idle 
and play with ’em, and do worse than that it 
may be — ^just think of the Lord Mayor and 
what you may come to.” 

“ Yes sir, I will, sir, said young St. Giles, 
impatient to begin business. 

“ Then go along with you,” cried Cap- 
stick ; “ and mind people don’t call me a fool 
fortrusting you. There, go,” said the trades- 
man, a little pompously — ‘‘ cry muffins, and 
be happy 1” 

St. Giles jumped from the step into the 
street, and rang his bell, and chirped “muf. 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


17 


✓ 


fins” with the energy of a young enthusiast. 
Capstick with complacency upon his face, 
looked for a time after the child ; he then 
muttered — “Well, if it saves the litllewretch, 
it’s a cheap penn’orth.” 

“ At your old doings again !” cried Mrs. 
Capstick, who from the dark nook of a back 
parlor had watched, what she often called 
the weakness of her husband. 

“ My dear Mary Anne,” chuckled the muf- 
fin-maker as though laughing at a good joke 
— “ ’tis the little rascal that, I told you, set 
upon me in Bow-street, I’ve given him a few 
of the stale ones — he’s rogue enough to pass 
’em off I know. Ha ; ha ! I like to see the 
villany of life — it does me good. After, as 
you know, what life’s done for me, it’s meat 
and drink to me to see the crops of little va- 
gabonds coming up about us like mustard 
seed — all of ’em growing up to cheat and 
rob, and serve the world as it should be serv- 
ed ; for it’s a bad world — 'base and brassy 
as a bad shilling.” And with this ostenta- 
tious, counterfeit misanthropy, would the 
muffin-maker award to his best deeds the 
worst motives. And Mrs. Capstick was a 
shrewd woman. She suffered herself to 
seem convinced of her husband’s malice of 
heart, — knowing as she did its thorough ex- 
cellence. But then the muffin-maker had 
been bitterly used by the world. “ His wine 
of life,” he would say, “ had been turned in- 
to vinegar.” 

“ Well you’ll be ruined your own way,” 
cried Mrs. Capstick. 

“ And that, Mary Anne,” said the muffin- 
maker. “ is some comfort in ruin. When so 
many people would ruin us, it’s what I call 
a triumph over the villan}^ of the woirld to be 
ruined after one’s own desire.” 

“ Good afternoon, ma’am — why, you’re 
welcome as the flowers in spring,” said Mrs. 
Capstick to a woman flauntily dressed, and 
burning in red ribands, who suddenly enter- 
ed the shop ; a woman whose appearance 
did scarcely suggest the beauty and tender- 
ness of spring flowers. “ I haven’t seen 
you these three months.” 

“ Oh lor, no !” said the woman, “ that court 
will be the death of all of us.” 

Let not the reader imagine that the speaker 
complained of the tainted air or confined lim- 
its of any court in the neighborhood. No, 
indeed ; she spoke of no other court than the 
Court of St. James. 

“ What ! Queen Charlotte will so often 
make you take tea with her, eh 1” said the 
muffin-man with his severest sneer. “ It’s 
too bad ; she oughtn’t to be so hard upon 
you.” 

“ Oh, there’s so much dining and dining — 
cabinet dinners, my Aar, they call ’em — for 
they always eat most when they’ve most to 
do, — that I might as well be in the galleys. 
However, thev’re all going to the play to- j 
2 , 


night, and — it’s a poor heart that never re- 
joices — I’m going there myself.” 

“ Well, I don’t know that you could do a 
better thing/’ said Capstick; “'there’s- a 
good deal to be learnt at a play, if fools will 
learn anything.” 

“ Oh ! a fiddle’s end upon learning. I go 
for a nice deep tragedy ; something cutting, 
that will do me good. There’s nothing so 
refreshing as a good cry, when, my dear, 
you know after all there’s nothing to. cry 
about. Tears was given us to enjoy our- 
selves with — that is, tears at the play- 
house.” 

“ They wash out the mind, like a dirty 
tea-cup,” said the muffin-maker, “ and give 
a polish to the feelings.” 

“ They always do with me. Mister Cap- 
stick,” said the woman, “ I never feel so ten- 
der and so kind to all the world as when 
I’ve had a good cry ; and, thank Heaven ! a 
very little makes me cry. What w^e women 
should do, if we couldn’t cry, my dear, no- 
body knows. We’re treated bad enough as 
it is, but if we couldn’t cry when we liked, 
how we should be put upon) — what poor, de- 
fenceless creturs we should be !” 

“ Nature’s been very kind to you,” said 
the muffin-maker. “ Next to the rhinoce- 
ros, there’s nothing in the world armed like 
a woman. And she knows it.” 

“ I’m not talking about brute beasts. Mis- 
ter Capstick,” said the fair one, tossing her 
head ; and then approaching the shop^oor, 
she looked intently down the street. 

Mrs. Capstick, to change the conversation, 
carelessly observed — “ You are not looking 
for anybody, Kitty I” 

“ For nobody in particlar,” said Kitty, 
and she again gazed ve'ry anxiously. “ The 
truth is, one of our gentlemen is going to the 
play with me. We didn’t leave the house 
together, for you know what foolishness peo- 
ple talk. I told him to meet me here, I’m 
going to buy some muffins, you know,” she 
quic&y added, as a justifiable trading excuse 
for the liberty she had taken. 

“ Never mind the muffins,” said Capstick; 
“ if I can help you to a husband in any law- 
ful way, Kitty, why I owe the world such a 
grudge, I’ll do anything to do it.” 

Kitty in her maiden confusion, unconscious 
of the" muffin-maker’s satire, merely said, 
“ Lor ! Mr. Capstick.” 

“ What sort of a gentleman is he 1” asked 
Mrs. Capstick. 

“ There, again,” said the muffin-maker, 
“ if it isn’t droll ! There can’t be a woman 
ever so old that, when she thinks she smells 
a sweet-heart somewhere, doesn’t snigger 
and grin as if her own courting days were 
come again. Well, you are a strange lot, 
you women i” 

“ What sort of a gentlerhan is he, Kitty 1” 

1 repeated the unmoved Mrs. Capstick. 


18 


THE HISTORY OP 


Kitty smiled very forcibly, and answered, 

“ Oh, a — a dark gentleman. And now, Mrs. 
Capstick, let me have a shilling’s worth of 
muffins. Dear me ! Why don’t you come 
and live in Pell Mell 1 Muffins is the only 
things that we haven’t tip-top at the West- 
end. You’re burying yourself here, in St. 
Giles’s : you are, indeed. If you’d only 
come West-end — only don’t let it be known 
where you come from — I could put your 
muffins, as I may say, into millions of fami- 
lies.” 

“ It’s worth thinking of,” said the sly 
Capstick, “ I might he appointed muffin-ma- 
ker to the Royal Family. Might put up the 
Royal Arms, with a gold toasting-fork in the 
lion’s mouth.” 

“ To be sure you might,” said the san- 
guine Kitty ; “and if you’ve a mind to do it, 
I’ll speak to the cook — he’s the best of 
friends with the butler — the butler will speak 
to the valet — the valet will speak to master 
— and master’s only got to catch the king in 
a good humor to do anything with him. I 
tell you what do,” said Kitty, as struck by 
a brilliant thought ; “ send in a couple of 
dozzen muffins to-morrow, and I’ll manage 
to introduce ’em.” 

“ And you think his gracious Majesty’s to 
be got at in this way, through the kitchen I” 
asked Capstick. 

“ I’m certain sure of it ; it’s done every 
day ; or what’s the good of having a master 
in what they call a cabinet I There’s no- 
thing like working up’ards, Mr. Capstick — 
I know what the court is. I’d have done a 
good deal for Jem — they call him Bright 
Jem, but I could never see his brightness — 
only he’s as proud as a peacock with a new 
tail. I could have got him — ha! I don’t 
know what I couldn’t have got him — only he’d 
never let me ask for it. Ha ! if my foolish 
sister hadn’t married, as I may say, in the 
gutter, she might have been quite as well off 
as me.” 

“She seems very happy, for all that,” 
said Mrs. Capstick. 

“ Poor thing 1 she doesn’t know any bet- 
ter,” said Kitty ; “ she oughtn’t to be hap- 
py though. I’m going to tea with her, and 
to take them muffins ; for though she has 
married a low tradesman, I can’t forget she’s 
my sister ; and yet you should hear how I 
do get laughed at about it, sometimes in our 
house. But feelings is feelings, Mr. Cap- 
stick. Oh !” added Kitty with much viva- 
city, and an affected flutter — “ here comes 
the gentleman. Now, think of what I’ve 
said, Mr. Capstick ; there’s the shilling.” 
And Kitty, taking the muffins, turned out of 
the shop, meeting a black servant — black as 
guilt — as he was about to enter. “ Here I 
am, Cesar,” said Kitty ; and taking his 
ebony arm, she walked with him away. 

“ Why, bless me ! She’s never going to 
marry a nigger 1” cried the muffin-maker’s 


I wife. “ She’ll never do such a thing ! Eh, 
Mr. Capstick I” 

“ Why, Mary Anne,” said the misanthro- 
pe, “ Miss Kitty is a long way the other side 
of a chicken. And when women of her 
time of life can’t snow white, they’ll snow 
black.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

We must again solicit the company of the 
reader to the lodging of Bright Jem, Short’s 
Gardens. It is the same clean, dull room, 
as shown in our second chapter : one of the 
many abiding places in which the ca^re and 
industry of woman do somehow make poverty 
and snugness half- friends ; in which pen- 
ury has at least the cheerful hue of cleanli- 
ness. Bright Jem again smoked at the fire- 
place. Though more than six years had 
passed, they had run off his face like oil. 
Here and there his stubbly hair was dredged 
with grey ; his broad back was bent a little, 
nothing more. Indeed, Jem’s was one of 
those faces, in which time seems at once to 
do its best and worst. It grew a little browner 
with years like walnut-wood ; but that was 
all. 

We cannot say — and in truth it is a tick- 
lish question to ask of those who are best 
qualified to give an answer — if there really 
be not a comfort in substantial ugliness : in 
ugliness that, unchanged will last a man his 
life ; a good granite face in which there shall 
be no wear and tear. A man so appointed, 
is saved many alarms, many spasms of pride. 
Time cannot wound his vanity through his 
features ; he eats, drinks, and is merry, in 
despite of mirrors. No acquaintance starts 
at sudden alteration, hinting in such surprise, 
decay and the final tomb. He grows older, 
with no former intimates — churchyard voi- 
ces ! — crying, “ How you’re altered !” How 
many a man might have been a truer hus- 
band, a better father, firmer friend, more val- 
uable citizen, had he, when arrived at legal 
maturity, cut oft' — say, an inch of his nose. 
This inch — only an inch'! — would have des- 
troyed the vanity of the very handsomest 
face ; and so, driven the thoughts of a man 
from a vulgar looking-glass, a piece of shop 
crystal, — and more, from the fatal mirrors 
carried in the heads of women to reflect, 
heaven knows how many coxcombs who 
choose to stare into them, — to the glass of his 
own mind. With only such petty sacrifice, " 
he might have been a philosopher. Thus 
considered, how manV* a coxcomb may be 
within an inch of a sage ! True, there was 
an age when wise men — at least a few of 
them — glorified in self-mutilation, casting 
sanguinary offerings to the bird of wisdom. 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


19 


But this was in the freshness and youth of 
the world ; in the sweet innocence of early 
time. But the world grows old ; and like a 
faded, fashionable beauty, the older it grows, 
the more it lays on the paint. 

And the sum and end of this swelling pa- 
ragraph is this. If, 0 reader ! you are 
young and believe yourself handsome, avoid 
the peril of beauty. Think of Narcissus, 
and — cutoff your nose. Only an inch And 
now let us descend to the hearth and home 
of Bright Jem. 

Mrs. Aniseed still shone, in comfortable 
looks, at the fire-side. Her face was a lit- 
tle thinner, a little longer ; but time had 
touched her as though, for the good heart 
that was in her bosom, he loved her. 

A third person — a visitor — was present : 
a woman of any age. Her face seemed 
bloodless — white as chalk — formed in sharp 
outline. She was poorly drest, — and yet it 
was plain she aimed at a certain flow and 
amplitude of costume that should redeem her 
from among the vulgar. Her head was arm- 
ed with a white stiff muslin cap, frilled and 
pointed : it seemed a part of her ; a thing 
growing upon her, like the crest of some 
strange bird. She sat motionless, with her 
arms crossed, like an old figure in faded tapes- 
try. Poor soul ! she seemed one of the rem- 
nants of apother age, that time, as he clears 
aw'ay generations, forgets now and then to 
gather up; or it maybe, purposely leaves them 
for a while as century posts of a past age. 
Miss Canary — such w^as her name — was 
very poor ; nevertheless, she had one sus- 
taining comfort, which — as though it w'ere a 
cordial — she took to her heart twenty times 
a-day. It was this : “ She was born a lady ; 
nobody could deprive her of that.” And it 
was this proud thought that, like an armed 
knight, attended her in the gallery of Co- 
vent-garden Theatre, where, condescending 
to poverty, she every evening offered for 
sale apples and oranges, cider, and a bill of 
the play. It was this thought of her born 
gentility that kept her taciturn and stately 
amidst the free comments of apprentices, the 
wit of footmen, and the giggling of holiday 
maids. The dignity of her utterance, her 
stately bearing, had some years past obtain- 
ed for her the name of Lady Canary. And 
she deserved it. For she offered apples, 
oranges, cider, and a bill of the play, as 
though she really invited the gods of the 
fruit of the gardens of Hesperides, to the 
very choicest sort of nectar, and a new poem 
by Apollo. There was no solicitation in her 
tone, — but a sort of disciplined condescen- 
sion ; and she took the money for her com- 
modities with nothing of the air of a trader, 
but of a tax-gatherer,— or rather of a queen 
receiving homage in the tangible form of 
halfpence. And all this she owed to the 
constant thought that glorified her far beyond 
the heroines upon the stage — (empresses for 


a night) — to the possessing idea that “ she 
was born a lady ; and nobody could deprive 
her of that.” It w’as this family pride — from 
what family she rose and declined she never | 
told — that now engaged her in, we fear, an 
unequal controversy with Bright Jem ; his 
wife, strange to say for a wife, taking no part 
in the debate, but sitting at the fire, now 
smiling and now nodding applause at either 
deserving party. 

“ No, Mr. James, no. I tell you, I was 
born a lady, and I couldn’t do it,” said Miss 
Canary. “ You are a good man, a very 
kind creature, Mr. Aniseed ; but excuse me, 
you don’t know what high life’s made of.” 

“Not all made o’ sugar, I dare say,” said 
Jem, “ no more than our life’s all made o’ 
mud.” 

“ But I ought to know ; for I tell you 
again I was born a lady,” cried the playhouse 
Pomona. 

“ Nonsense,” said Jem. “ I tell you Miss 
Canary, there isn’t such a thing as a born 
lady in the wmrld.” 

“ Why ! you never, Mr. James !” and 
Miss Canary was scandalised at the he- 
resy. 

“Born lady !” repeated Jem, laughingly ; 
and thep moving his chair towards his dis- 
putant, he touched her mittened arm with 
his pipe saying — “ Look here, now. There’s 
Mrs. Grimbles, at number five, she had a 
little gal last week, — you know that I Well ; 
Mrs. Grimbles is a clear-starcher. That 
you allow 1 And for that reason — now tell 
me this, — for that reason is her little baby 
born a clear-starcher 1 Eh 1 I shouldlike 
, to know as much as that now V’ 

“ Oh, Mr. James ! you’re a good person. 
— but you know you’re a low man ; no, no ; 
you can’t- understand these things.” And 
Miss Canary smiled a pitying smile. 

“ I tell you,” said Jem, “there’s no such 
a thing as born ladies and gentlemen. — 
There’s little bits of red girls and boys born 
if you will, — and you may turn ’em into — 
now, look here,” said Jem, “ if there. was to 
be some born gentlemen and some not, — 
why wasn’t there two Adams and two 
Eves, for the high folks and the low 
ones !” 

“Oh, Mr. James!” cried Miss Canary, 
half rising from her seat — “ For your pre- 
cious soul’s sake, I hope not, but I do think 
you’re an athist.'" 

“ I can’t tell, I’m sure,” said Jem, not 
comprehending the conveyed reproach. “ I 
don’t know' ; but as for my soul. Miss Cana- 
ry, — why, I try to keep it as clean and take as 
good care of it as a soldier takes care of his 
gun, so that it may be always in fighting or- 
der against the enemy.” 

“You think so, Mr. James; but with 
your notions, it’s impossible. Oh, Mrs. Ani- 
seed, Ido wonder at you 1 How you can hear 
your good man talk as he does, and still sit 


20 


THE HISTORY OF 


laughing in that way Well, I bless my 
stars, I’ve not a to be miserable 

about.” 

“Well, I’m sure. Miss Canary I wish you 
had, said Mrs. Aniseed, laughing the more. 
“ If you was only as miserable as I am, what 
a deal happier you’d be ! People who live 
alone with nobody but a cat, — I don’t know 
how it is, but they do get a little like their 
company.” 

“ Susan,” said Jem ; and takiing the pipe 
from his mouth, he looked full at his wife, 
and skook his head reprovingly. “ I won’t 
have it Susan.” 

“ La, Jem ! Mayn’t I speak in my own 
house ?” cried the wife. 

“ It’s the very last place you ought to 
speak in, Susan, if you can’t speak nothing 
that’s comfortable. If you and Miss Canary 
want a good bout together, why, I hope I 
know women too well to be unreasonable. 
’Point a place and take an early hour that 
you may get it over in one day, and not at 
your own fireside, where you ask a body to 
come and sit down cosily with you. It’s a 
mean advantage. A wild Injun wouldn’t do 
it.” 

“ I’m sure, Jem, I meant nothing,” said 
Mrs. Aniseed. 

“ That’s it, Susan ; that’s the shame and 
nonsense o’ the thing. A man might bear a 
good deal of noise from you women — I don’t 
mean you. Miss Canary — if there was half- 
an-ounce of meaning in it. But when you 
get upon an argiment one with another, you 
go at it like a monkey on a drum. It’s all 
a row without a bit of tune in it. And then, 
nine times out o’ ten, after you’ve been spit- 
ting and clawing at one another, you make 
it up you don’t know why, and all of a sud- 
den you’re sociable together as two kittens 
at the same sarcer of milk. And now, Susan, 
my old woman, get the tea.” 

Mrs. Aniseed, vnth a sudden smile at her 
face, called there by the kindly tone of the 
conjugal mandate, said, “You’re a queer 
cretur, Jem,” and was about to quit the room. 
She paused a moment at the door, and nodd- 
ing significantly to Jem, said, “Muffins,” 
and then vanished. 

We know not whether the word reached 
Miss Canary, but she observed with new 
cordiality, — “ She’s a dear woman, Mr. 
James ; and now she can’t hear me, I don’t 
mind saying it — I love her like any sister.” 

Bright Jem said nothing, but sucked his 
pipe with a loud smack. 

“ Nothing’s a trouble to her. She’s done 
many things for me, that 1 couldn’t have 
done myself ; but then, as I say, Mr. James, 
I was born a lady, and though I do sell fruit 
in the playhouse, thank heaven ! I never for- 
get myself.” 

“ Not when your cat’s a starving ?” said 
Jem, drily. 


“ Now we won’t talk of that again, Mr. 
James. We’ve talked enough about that. 
You may say it’s weakness — I call it a pro- 
per pride. I don’t mind going with a pie to 
the bakehouse — don’t much mind answering 
the milk — but I can’t quite forget what I 
came of — no, nothing on earth should compel 
me to take in the cat’s-meat. Pride must 
stop somewhere ; and until my dying day, I 
stop at cat’s-meat.” j 

“ Well, I’m very glad. Miss Canary, I’m 
not your mouser, that’s all,” said Jem ; who 
was interrupted in further speech by the 
sudden appearance of his wife, who some- 
what flustered, yet with laughter playing 
about her mouth, bounced into the room. 

“Jem,” she cried, “who do you think’s 
coming? And who do you think” — and 
here she approached her husband, and was 
about to whisper in his ear, when Jem drew 
himself majestically back. 

“ Mrs. Aniseed,” he said, somewhat stern- 
ly, “ you’ve no more manners than a poll 
parrot.” 

“ Don’t mind me,” said Miss Canary, 
rising. “ I’ll go upon the landing for a 
minute.” 

“ Don’t stir a foot, ma’am,” cried Jem, 
jumping up and handing her the chair; then 
turning to his wife, — “ And this is your 
breeding, — to whisper company out o’ your 
room ! What have you got to say ?” 

“ Well, then, nothing but this — Kitty’s 
down stairs, come to tea. And she’s brought 
somebody with her,” said Mrs. Aniseed. 

“ Well, poor soul ! I hope it’s a sweet- 
heart : she’s been a long while looked over, 
and I hope her time’s come at last. Does 
he look like a sweetheart ? You women 
can tell that,” said Jem. 

“ I don’t know, I’m sure,” answered Mrs. 
Aniseed, and she burst into a loud laugh. 
At the same moment, Kitty Muggs entered 
the room all smiles and good-humor, shaking 
hands with Bright Jem, and her esteemed 
acquaintance, Miss Canary; who, more than 
once, had sunk the recollection of her lady- 
like origin, and visited the kitchen of St. 
James’s as an especial guest of Kitty’s. 

“ I never saw you look so well, Kitty — 
well, that bonnet does become you,’’ said 
Miss Canary. “ And what a sweet riband !” 

“Why, Kitty, there is mischief in the 
wind. Pm certain,” said Jem. “ You’ve got 
somebody tight at last, I can see that. Don’t 
pucker your mouth up as small as a weddin’ 
ring, but tell us who it is. I’ll give you 
away with all my heart and soul.” 

“ Lor, Jem ! you are such a man. It’s 
only one of our gentlemen come with me ; 
we’re going to the play.” And then a foot- 
step was heard on the stairs, and Kitty, run- 
ning to the door, cried, encouragingly, “ Come 
up, Cesar.” Cesar obeyed the invitation, 
and in an instant stood bowing about him on 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


21 


the floor. Jem was twitched by a momen- 
tary surprise, but directly recovered himself. 
Laying down his pipe, he advanced with out- 
stretched hand to the negro. 

“ You’re welcome, my friend. Anybody 
as Kitty Muggs brings here is' welcome as 
she is.” Jem, turning his eye, detected his 
wife painfully endeavoring to kill a laugh by 
thrusting her apron corner into her mouth. 
Whereupon he repeated in a tone not to be 
mistaken by his helpmate — “ Quite welcome ; 
as welcome as she is.” Mrs. Aniseed, 
thus rebuked, with a great effort swallowed 
her mirth, and immediately busied herself at 
the cupboard. Cesar silently seated himself, 
and looked about him — pleased with the 
cordiality of his reception — with a face lust- 
rous as blackest satin. In his great content- 
ment, he saw not Miss Canary, who had 
risen from her chair, and still stood with un- 
closed lips and wandering eyes, ,evidently 
feeling that all her treasured gentility was 
quitting her for ever, drawn magnetically 
from her by the presence of the negro. She 
could not stay in the same room with a 
blackamoor — that was impossible. No; she 
was born a lady ; and she would die rather 
than forfeit that consolation. Bewildered, 
yet endeavoring to make a graceful retreat, 
she still remained motionless, drawn taller, 
as pride and death will draw people. 

“ There’s no need of ceremony. Miss Ca- 
nary,” said Jem, moving the chair to her 
with an emphasis — “Come, sit down, and 
make your life happy.” Without knowing 
what she did. Miss Canary dropt in the chair; 
and then veliemently hated herself for the 
docility. Nevertheless, she would not remain 
in the room with a negro footman. A livery 
was bad enough ; but a livery with a black 
man inside of it ! There was no lie she 
would not tell to escape the degradation. 

“ You’re very good, Mr. James ; very 
kind, but I’ve such a headache,” said Miss 
Canary, “Ido think my head will split in 
two.” 

“ Well, two heads, they say, is better than 
one,” cried Jem, who saw at once the cause 
of the sudden illness. 

“Got a head-ache!” exclaimed Kitty. 
“ Where’s my salts, Cesar ?” Immediately, 
Cesar taking a small bottle, warm from his 
pocket, advanced towards Miss Canary, who 
tried to shrink through the back of the chair, 
as the black approaclied her. “ Take a good 
smell at ’em,” said Kitty, “they’re fresh to- 
day; I had ’em for the play to-night. I 
never go without ’em, since I was taken out 
a fainAg.” 

“ Never mind the salts,” said Mrs. Ani- 
seed ; “a cup of nice tea will do you good.” 
And she set the tea-things on the table. 

“Yes,” cried Kitty, “and I’ve brought 
you some real gunpowder, some I got from 
our own canister.” 


Kitty was about to consign the treasure to 
the tea-pot, when Bright Jem snatched up 
the vessel. “Much obliged to you, Kitty, 
all the same, but you’ll keep your gunpowder. 
I don’t make my bowels a place for stolen 
goods, I can tell you.” 

“ Stolen goods, Mr. Aniseed,” cried Kitty ; 
“ stolen, why, it was only taken.” Jern, in- 
exdrable, shook his head. “ Well, you are 
such a strange man, and have such strange 
words for things !” 

“ No, Kitty,” answered Jem ; “ it’s having 
the right word for things, that makes ’em 
seem strange to you. I’ve told you this 
afore ; now, don’t you try it again.” 

Mrs. Aniseed, to divert this little contest, 
bustled about with uncalled-for energy ; ring- 
ing the cups and saucers, and then calling 
out loudly for a volunteer to toast the muffins. 
“ Permit me, marm,” said Cesar, with exu- 
berant politeness; the while Mrs. Aniseed 
drew back the toasting-fork, declaring she 
could by no manner of means suffer such a 
thing. 

“ Let him do it ; he toasts beautiful,” cried 
Kitty ; and Cesar gained his wish. 

“ ’Sense my back, marm,” said Cesar, as, 
stooping to the fire, he turned that part of his 
anatomy towards Miss Canary. 

“ Always as he is now,” said Kitty, in a 
whisper, to Miss Canary, “ good-tempered as 
any dog.” And then she furtively pressed 
the forbidden gunpowder tea upon the spin- 
ster, assuring her that the queen didn’t drink 
such. Reader, your indulgence for human 
frailty. Miss Canary, forgetful of her lady- 
hood, pocketed the stolen goods with the 
serenity of a seraph. 

“ And so you’re a going to the play, Kitty, 
you and Mr. Cesar ? Well, I think we shall 
have a good house. Of course, you go to 
our shop ?” said Jem. “ A deep tragedy to- 
night. All the better for you. Miss Canary, 
isn’t it? Well, I never could make it out; 
that folks should suck more oranges, and 
drink more beer at a tragedy, than any other 
thing.” 

“It’s their feelings, Jem,” said Mrs. Ani- 
seed. 

“ Well, I suppose it is. Just as folks eat 
and drink as they do at a funeral. When 
tlie feelings are stirred up, they must have 
something to struggle with, and so they go 
to eating and drinking.” 

“Romeo and Juliet’s always worth three 
shillings more to me than any other play,” 
said Miss Canary, gradually reconciled to 
the black by the gunpowder. “ Oranges re- 
lieve the heart.” 

“ No doubt on it,” said Jem. “ Though I 
don’t often look inside the house, still I’ve 
seen ’em in the front row of the gallery — a 
whole lot of full-grown women — sucking and 
crying, like broken-hearted babbies.” 

“ We’re ail a going to-night, Jem,” said 


22 


THE HISTORY OF 


Kitty, “ that is, all our people. My lord and i 
my lady, and, for the first time in his life, 
the dear child. Oh, what a love of loves 
that baby is. But you remember him, 
Susan ? you recollect the night he was born, 
don’t you?” 

“ I should think I did,” said Mrs. Aniseed. 
‘•That’s the night, you know, Jem, I brought 
home that blessed infant.” 

“ Blessed infant !” groaned Jem. “ Ha ! 
he was a blessed infant. And what is he 
now? Why, he looks as if he had been 
brought up by a witch, and played with no- 
thing but devils. A little varmint ! when he 
sometimes comes sudden upon me, he makes 
me gasp again ; there does seem such a deal 
of knowing in his looks. You might thread 
a needle with his head, it looks so sharp. 
Poor little bit of muck! Ha!” and again 
Jem groaned. 

“ Ha ! the Lord knows what will become 
of him,” cried Mrs. Aniseed. 

“ I know what will become of him,” said 
Jem ; “ the gallows will become of him — 
that’s as plain as rope.” 

“ Well, Mr. James,” said Miss Canary — 
“ and if they will — a little more sugar, please 
— if they will, these little wretches, rush to 
destruction, what’s to be done with ’em ?” 

“ Rush to destruction !” cried Jem, indig- 
nantly — “ pushed, driven to destruction, you 
mean. Now, look at that little chap — see 
what he’s gone through. I wonder he isn’t 
as full of wrinkles as a monkey. He wasn’t 
above six months old when we had him. 
Well, they took him from us ; to be sure 
we’d no right to him; there was his own 
mother, and — no matter for that. They took 
him from us ; and for a twelvemonth after 
that — I’ve seen him now in one woman’s 
lap, now in another’s, with his pretty plump 
face every week getting thinner and thinner 
— poor little wretch ! — as though, babby as 
it was, it knew something of the wickedness 
that was going on about it, and days counted 
double days upon it. There looked a some- 
thing horrible sensible in the child — a know- 
ingness that was shocking, crowded as it 
was into its bit of a farthing face. Well, so 
it went on for about two years. And then. 
I’ve seen it barefoot in the mud, and heard it 
screaming its little pipe like a whistle, a 
singing ballads. And then, when it wasn’t 
four year old, I’ve seen the child with matches 
in his hand ; and I’ve heard him lie and beg, 
and change his voice up and down, and down 
and up — lord! it has made my blood turn 
like water to hear such cunning in a little 
cretur that natur meant to be as innocent as 
heaven. Well, and now what is he ? At 
seven year old, what is he ? Why, that little 
head of his is full of wasps as July. Now 
and then, a sort of look comes back upon his 
face, as if it was a good angel looking in it, 
— and then, away it goes, and there’s a imp 


i of wickedness, grinning and winking at 
you.” 

“ I hope we shall be in time to get a good 
place,” said Kitty,' to whom the history of 
young St. Giles seemed a very low and 
wicked business. “ I want to get in the 
front row, because I do want to see how that 
precious cretur, that dear angel, young mas- 
ter, likes it. Sweet fellow ! They say he’s 
so sensible — shouldn’t wonder if he knows 
every bit about it to-morrow. There never 
was such a child as that in the world.” 

“ What ! young St. James, eh? Well, he 
ought to be a nice little chap,” said Jem. 

“ He’s lived the life of a flower ; with noth- 
ing to do, but to let himself be nursed and 
coddled. He hasn’t had nothing to iron the 
dimples out of him yet. Howsomever, I 
shall have a look at him to-night when I call 
the carriage.” 

A few minutes more elapsed, and then 
there was a general move towards the thea- 
tre. Miss Canary, having suffered a pro- 
mise to be tortured from her that she would 
visit Kitty at the West-end, left Short’s Gar- 
dens to prepare her basket in the gallery. 
Bright Jem, having heartily shaken Cesar’s 
hand — Cesar had remained silent almost as 
night during his visit, though he looked and 
smiled all kind of grateful eloquence — de- 
parted on his customary 'duty ; and Kitty had 
then nothing to do, but to persuade her 
sister to accompany her and .Cesar to the 
house. “ I’ll pay for you, Susan, so you 
needn’t mind the expense,” said Kitty. 

“ Oh, it isn’t that,” said Mrs. Aniseed, 

“ not at all that, but — ” 

“ Well, then, what can it be ? Jem says 
you may go if you like, and I can see noth- 
ing to prevent you.” 

No, Kitty ; you cannot see. Your eyes 
are lost in your heart, and you cannot see a 
footman of most objectionable blackness — a 
human blot — an ignominious stain that the 
prejudices of your sister, kind, cordial soul 
as she is, shrink from as from something 
dangerous to respectability. You, Kitty, 
cannot see this. You merely look upon 
Cesar Gum — the only creature of all the ten 
thousand thousand men, who, in your pilgrim- 
age through life, has ever profered to you 
the helping of his arm, who has ever stam- 
mered, Irerabled, smiled at your look, and 
run like a hound at your voice — you merely 
see in him a goodness, a sympathy that you 
have yearned for ; and for the tint of the 
virtue you see it not : to you it may be either 
black, red, or white. Certainly, so much has 
the fire of your heart absorbed the #olor of 
your slave, that to you black Cesar Gum is 
fair as Ganymede. Sweet magician Love ! 
Mighty benevolence, Cupid, that takes away • 
stains and blots — that gives the line of 
beauty to zig-zag, upturned noses — that 
smiles, a god of enchantment in all eyes 


I 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


2^ 


however green, blinking, or fish-like— that 
gives a pouting prettiness even to a hare-lip, 
bending it like Love’s own bow ! Great 
juggler, Cupid, that from his wings shakes 
precious dust in mortal eyes ; and lo ! they 
see nor blight, nor deformity, nor stain ; or 
see them turned to ornament ; even, as it is 
said, the pearl of an oyster is only so much 
oyster disease. Plutus has been called a 
grand decorator. He can but gild ugliness ; 
passing off the thing for its brightness. But 
Love — Love can give to it the shape, and 
paint it, with tints of his own mother. Plutus 
may, after all, be only a maker of human 
ocket-pieces. He washes deformity with 
right metal, and so puts it off upon the near- 
sighted ; now Love is an alchemist, and will, 
at least to the eyes and ears of some one, 
turn the coarsest lump of clay to one piece 
of human gold. And it was Love that, pass- 
ing his rose-tipped, baby fingers along the 
lids of Kitty Muggs, made her see white in 
black : it was Love that, to her vision, turned 
ebony to ivory. 

“ Didn’t you hear Jem say you might go I” 
again cried the unconscious Kitty. 

“ Shall be most happy, assure you marm,” 
said Cesar, clasping his hands, and raising 
them entreatingly. “ Take great care of 
you, neber fear.” 

‘ “ Well, I will go,” said Mrs. Aniseed, 
her repugnance conquered by Cesar’s good 
temper ; and in a few minutes — for Mrs. 
Aniseed possessed, perhaps, that highest 
and most valuable of all the female virtues, 
a virtue that Eve herself was certainly not 
born with, she was a quick dresser — in a 
few minutes the three were on their road to 
Covent Garden Theatre. A few m'rutes 
more, and they entered the galler} All 
things portended a happy evening, for they 
were early enough for the front row ; Mr. 
Cesar Gum taking his joyful seat between 
the ladies. 

“ Mind the bottle, dear,” said Kitty in a 
low voice to Cesar, who nodded ; his eyes 
sparkling up at the tender syllable. “ Such 
a sweet drop of Madeary from our house, 
Susan ; ha! ha ! never mind, Jem.” 

The gallery filled with holiday-makers 
and gallery wits. Miss Canary was soon 
hailed as an old acquaintance ; every possi- 
ble dignity thrown, like roses, upon her. 
One apprentice begged to inquire of her 
“ When the Emperor of Chaney was com- 
ing over to marry her 1” Another asked 
her, “ What she’d take for her diamond ear- 
rings 1” But beautiful was it to behold the 
nun-like serenity of Miss Canary. She 
moved among her scoffers, silent and state- 
ly, as the ghost of a departed countess. “1 
mind ’em no more,” she observed, as in the 
course of her vocation she approached Mrs. 
Aniseed, “ no more than the heads of so 
many door-knockers.” Cesar mutely acqui- 


esced in this wisdom ; and in an evil hour 
for him, turning a wrathful face upon the re- 
vilers, he diverted all their sport from Miss 
Canary to himself. “ Bill,” cried one, “ isn’t 
it going to thunder 1 It looks so very 
black.” “ I wish I was a nigger,” roared 
another, “ then I’d be a black rose atween a 
couple of lilies, too.” And then other pret- 
ty terms, such as, ‘‘ snowball,” “ powder- 
puff,” were hurled at Cesar, who sat and 
grinned in helpless anger at the greerf cur- 
tain. And then" poor Mrs. Aniseed ! she 
shifted on her seat, and felt as if that terri- 
ble burning-glass which brings into a focus 
the rays of “ the eyes of all the world” was 
upon her, and she was being gradually 
scorched to tinder. At length the tragedy, 
“ George Barnwell,” began. Kitty was 
now melted by George, and now put in fe- 
ver-heat by Millwood, of whom, leaning 
back to speak to Mrs. Aniseed, she confiden- 
tially observed, “ I’d have such creturs tore 
by wild osses.” To this Mrs. Aniseed, re- 
ciprocating the humanity, curtly replied, 
“ And so would I.” 

The second act passed, when Kitty ex- 
claimed, in a spasm of delight, “ There he 
is ; there’s little master. Look at him, Su- 
san — a sweet cretur,” and Kitty pointed out 
a beautiful child, who, with its mother and 
father, had just entered the boxes. The 
child was superbly dressed, and when he en- 
tered wore a white beaver hat, with a large 
plume of pink and white feathers. “ There 
he is,” again cried Kitty ; “we must drink 
his health.” Whereupon Cesar produced 
the bottle, and the health of young St. James 
— he all the while unconscious of the honor 
— was drunk in Madeira from his paternal 
dwelling. 

The play proceeded, and Kitty wept and 
sucked oranges — and wept, and sniffed salts, 
and fifty times declared it was too deep ; 
she’d never come again — and then sucked 
another orange — and then, when the plry 
was over, said she was glad it was done, 
though she had never enjoyed herself half 
so much. And then she said, “ After all, I 
think a good cry sometimes does us good ; 
it makes us remember that we are human 
creturs. But oh, that Millwood, Susan. 
When women are bad — to be sure it’s so 
wery seldom ! — I’m afraid they beat the 
men.” Every tear, however, shed by Kit- 
ty at the play, was recompensed by a roar- 
ing laugh at the farce. And, at length, 
brimful of happiness — all being over — the 
party rose to go home. “ Let’s see ’em get 
into the carriage — they needn’t see us,” said 
Kitty ; and hurriedly quitted the gallery, 
and ran round to the box-door. 

Bright Jem was in the very heat of ac- 
tion ; his mouth musical with noblest names. 
Dukes, Marquesses, and Earls, fell from his 
lips, as he called carriage after carriage. 


24 


THE HISTORY OP 


“ Marquess ef St. James’s cariiage,” at 
length he cried with peculiar emphasis ; and 
a superb equipage rolled to the door. The 
Marquess and Marchioness entered the ve- 
hicle, and a footman, lifting in the child, in 
his awkwardness knocked off the boy’s su- 
perb hat : it rolled along the stones, and — 
was gone. 

There was a sudden astonishment, and 
then a sudden cry of “ Stop thief!” Con- 
stables, and Cesar, who with Mrs. Aniseed 
and Kitty, had been looking on, gave chase ; 
and in a few moments returned with the hat 
and culprit, who, as it appeared, darting 
from under the horses’ legs to the pave- 
ment, had caught up the property. 

“Here’s the hat, my lord !” cried a con- 
stable, “and here’s the little thief. 

“ Lord have mercy on us !” cried Mrs. 
Aniseed, “ if it isn’t that wretched child.” 

“ I know’d it. I always said it,” cried 
Jem-, almost broken hearted. “ I know’d 
he’d come to it — I know’d it.” 

it was even so. Young St. Giles was 
the robber of young St. James. 


CHAPTER V. 

Short was the distance from Covent Grar- 
den Theatre to Covent Garden watch-house ; 
and therefore in a few minutes was young 
St. Giles arraigned before a night-constable. 
Cesar Gum had followed the offender as an 
important witness against him ; whilst Bright 
Jem and his wife certainly attended as sor- 
rowing friends of the prisoner. Kitty Muggs 
was of the party ; and her indignation at the 
wrong committed “ on so blessed a baby” — 
we mean of course St. James — would have 
burst forth in loudest utterance had she not 
been controlled by the moral influence of 
Bright Jem. Hence, she had only the small 
satisfaction of declaring, in a low voice to her 
sister, “ that the little wretch would be sure 
t© be hanged — for he had the gibbet, every 
bit of it, in his countenance.” With this 
consolation she suffered herself to be some- 
what tranquillised. “ The Lord help him I” 
cried Mrs. Aniseed. “ Well, you ought to 
be ashamed ©f yourself to say such a thing 1” 
wliispered Kitty Muggs. 

Bright Jem was sad an^d silent. As Ce- 
sar, with unusual glibness, narrated the cap- 
ture of the prisoner with the stolen property 
upon him, poor Jem, shading his eyes with 
his hand, looked mournfully at the pigmy 
culprit. Not a word did Jem utter ; but the 
heart-ache spoke in his face. 

“ And what have you got to say to this 1” 
asked the night- constaWe of St. Giles. 
“You’re a young gallows-bird, you are; 


hardly out of the shell, yet. What have you 
got to say 1” 

“ Why, I didn’t take the at,” answered 
young St. Giles, fixing his sharp black eyes 
full in the face of his interrogator, and speak- 
ing as though he repeated an old familiar les- 
son, “ I didn’t take it : the at rolled to me ; 
and I thought as it had tumbled out of a 
coach as was going on, and I run after it, ^ 
and calling out, if nobody had lost a at, when 
that black gentleman there laid hold on me, 
and said as how I stole it. How could I 
help it, if the at would roll to me 1 I didn’t 
want the at.” 

“ Ha !” said the constable, “ there’s a 
good deal of wickedness crammed into that 
little skin of yours — I shall lock you up. 
There — go in with you,” and the constable 
pointed to a cell, the door of which was al- 
ready opened for the reception of the pri- 
soner. 

And did young St. Giles quail or whimper 
at his prison threshold ? Did his young 
heart sink at the gloomy dungeon 1 Oh no. 
Child as he was, it was plain he felt he was 
acting a part : he had become in some way 
important, ^nd he seemed resolved to raise 
with the occasion. He had listened to tales 
of felon fortitude, of gallows heroism ; and 
ambition stirred wdthin him. He had heard 
of the Tyburn humorist, who, with his mis- 
erable jest in the jaws of death, cast his 
shoes from the cart to thwart an oft-told pro- 
phecy that he would die shod. All these 
stories St. Giles had listened to, and took to 
his heart as precious recollections. While 
other children had conned their books — 
and written maxim copies — and learned their 
cate'';hism, — St. Giles had learned this one 
thin;^ -to be “ game.” His world — the 
world of Hog Lane had taught him that ; he 
had listened to the counsel from lips with 
the bloom of Newgate on them. The 
foot-pad, the pickpocket, the burglar, had 
been his teachers : they had set him copies, 
and he had written them in his brain for 
life-long wisdom. Other little boys had 
been taught to “ love their neighbor as them- 
selves«” Now, the prime ruling lesson set 
to yeung St. Giles was “ honor among 
thieves.” Other boys might show reward- 
ing medals — precious testimony of their 
schooltime work ; young St. Giles knew 
nothing of these ; had never heard of them : 
and yet unconsciously he showed what to 
him was best evidence of his worth ; at the 
door of his cell, he showed that he was 
“ game.” Scarcely was he bidden to enter 
the dungeon, then he turned his face up to 
the constable, and his eyes twinkling and 
leering, and his little mouth quivering with 
scorn, he said — “.You don’t mean it. Mis- 
ter ; I know you don’t mean it.” 

“ Come, in with you ragged and sarcy !” 
cried the constable. 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


25 


“ Wei], then,” said the urchin, “ here goes 
— good night to you,” and so saying, he 
flung a summerset into the cell : the lock 
was turned, and Bright Jem — fetching a 
deep groan — quitted the watch-house, his 
wife, sobbing aloud, followed him. 

“ What can they .do to the poor child 1” 
asked Mrs. Aniseed of Jem, as the next 
morning he sat silent and sorrowful, with 
his pipe in his mouth, looking at the fire. 

“ Why, Susan, that’s what I was thinking 
of. What can they do with him. He isn’t 
old enough to hang ; but he’s quite big 
enough to be whipped. Bridewell and whip- 
ping ; yes that’s it, that’s how they’ll teach 
him. They’ll make Jack Ketch his school- 
master ; and nicely he’ll learn him his les- 
son towards Tyburn. The old story, Susan 
— the old story,” and Jem drew a long sigh. 

“ Don’t you think, Jem,” something might 
be done to send him to sea 1 He’d get ta- 
ken away from the bad people about him, 
and who knows, might after all turn out a 
bright man.” Such was the hopeful faith 
of Mrs. Aniseed. 

“ Why, there’s something in that to be 
sure. For my part, I think that’s a good 
deal what the sea was made for — to take 
away the offal of the land. He might get 
cured at sea ; if we could get anybody as 
would take him. I’m told the sea does won- 
ders, sometimes, with the morals of folks. 
Fve, heard of thieves and rogues of all sorts, 
that were aboard ship, have come round 
’straordinary. Now, whether it’s in the salt 
water or the bo’swains, who shall say ? He 
wouldn’t make a bad drummer, neither, with 
them little quick fists of his, if w^e could get 
him in the army.” 

Oh, I’d rather he was sent to sea, Jem,” 
cried Mrs. Aniseed, “ then he’d be out of 
harm’s way.” 

“ Oh, the army reforms all sorts of rogues, 
too,” averred Jem. “ Sometimes they get 
their morals pipeclayed, as well as their 
cioaths. Wonderful what heroes are made 
of sometimes. You see, I. suppose, there’s 
something in some part of the trade that 
agrees wdth some folks. When they storm 
a towm now, and take all they can lay their 
hands on, why there’s all the pleasure of the 
robbery without any fear of the gallows. It s 
stealing made glorious with flags and drums. 
Nobody knows how that little varmint might 
get on.” 

Here Jem was interrupted by the sudden 
appearance of a woman hung with rags and 
looking prematurely old. Misery and vice 
were in her face, though the traces of evil 
were for the time softened by sorrow. She 
was weeping bitterly, and with clasped tremb- 
ling hands ran into the room. It was the 
wretched mother of young St. Giles ; the 
miserable woman who more than six years 
before had claimed her child in that room ; 

3 


who had borne her victim babe away to play 
its early part in wretchedness and deceit. 
She had since frequently met Jem, but al- 
ways hurried from him. His reproofs, though 
brief, were too significant, too searching, for 
her shame to encounter. “ Oh, Jem ! Jem !” 
she cried, “ save my dear child — save my 
innocent lamb.” 

“ Ha! and if he isn’t innocent,” cried Jem, 
“ whose fault’s that I” 

“ But he is — he is,” screamed the woman. 
“ You won’t turn again him, too I He steal 
anything 1 A precious cretur ! he might be 
trusted with untold gold!” 

“ Woman,” said Jem, “ I wouldn’t like to 
hurt you in your trouble ; but havn’t you no 
shame at all 1 Don’t you know what a bit 
of truth is, that even now you should look in 
my face, and tell me such a wicked lie I” 

“ I don’t Jem — I don’t,” vociferated the 
woman. “ He’s as innocent as the babe un- 
born.” 

“ Why, so he is, as far as he knows what’s 
right and what's wrong. He has innocence ; 
that is, the innocence you’ve taught him. 
Teach a child the way he should go,” cried 
Jem, in a tone of some bitterness, “and you’ve 
taught him the way to Newgate. The Lord 
have mercy on you ! What a sweet babby 
he was, when six years and a half ago you 
took him from this room, — and what is he 
nowl Well, well, I won’t pour water on a 
drowned mouse,” said Jem, the woman cry- 
ing more vehemently at his rebuke, “but 
how you can look in that child’s face, and 
arter wards look up at heaven, I don’t 
know.” 

“ There’s no good not a ha’porth in all 
this preaching. All we want to know is this. 
Can you help us to get the young ’un out o’ 
trouble.” This reproof and interrogation 
were put in a hoarse, sawing voice by a man 
of about five-and-thirty, who had made his 
appearance shortly after St. Giles’s mother. 
He was dressed in a coat of Newgate cut. 
His hat was knowingly slanted over one eye- 
brow, his hands were in his pockets, and at 
short intervals he sucked the stalk of a prim- 
rose that shone forth in strong relief from the 
black whiskers and week’s beard surrround- 
ing it. 

“And who are you 1” asked Jem, in a 
tone not very encouraging of a gentle an- 
swer. 

“ That’s a good un, not to know me. My 
name’s Blast — Tom Blast ; not ashamed of 
my name,” said the owner, still champing 
the primrose. 

“Nojidaresay not,” answered Bright Jem. 
“ Oh, I know you now. I’ve seen you with 
the boy a singing ballads.” 

“ I should think so. And what on it 1 
No disgrace in that, eh 1 I look upon my- 
self as respectable as any of your folks as 
sing at your fine play-house. What do wo 


26 


THE HISTORY OF 


all pipe for but money ? Only there’s this 
difference ; they gets hundreds of pounds — 
and I gets half-pence. A singer for money 
’s a singer for money, — whether he stands 
upon mud or a carpet. But all’s one for 
that. What’s to be done for the boy 1 1 

tell his mother here not to worry about it — 
’twont be more than a month or two at 
Bridewell, for he’s never been nabbed afore : 
but it’s no use a talking to women, you 
know ; she won’t make her life happy, no 
how. So we’ve come to you.” 

“ And what can I do 1” asked Jem — “ I’m 
not judge and jury, am 1 1” 

“ Why, you know Capstick, the muffin- 
man. Well, he’s a householder, and can 
put in a good word for the boy with the beak. 
I suppose you know what a beak is I” said 
Thomas Blast, with a sartirical twist of the 
lip. “ Not too fine a gentleman to know 
that 1” 

“ Why, what does Capstick know of little 
St. Giles'?” asked Jem. 

“ Oh, Jem,” said the woman, “yesterday 
he stood his friend. He’s a stronge cretur, 
that Capstick ; and often does a poor soul a 
good turn, as if he’d eat him up all the while. 
Well, yesterday arternoon, what does he do 
but give my precious child — my innocent 
babe — two dozen muffins, a basket, and a 
bell.” 

“ I see,” cried Jem, with glistening eyes, 
“ set him up in trade. God bless that muf- 
fin-man.” 

“ That’s what he meant, Jem ; but it was- 
'•’t to be — it wasn’t to be,” cried the woman 

ith a sigh. 

“ No — it warn’t,” corroborated Mr. Blast. 

You see the young un — all agog as he was 
-brought the muffins to the lane. Well, 
tve hadn’t had two dinners, I can tell you, 
yesterday ; . so we sells the basket and the 
bell for sixpenn’orth of butter, and didn’t we 
go to work at the muffins.” And Mr. 
Blast seemingly spoke with a most satisfac- 
tory recollection of the banquet. 

“ And if they’d have pisoned all of you, 
served you right,” cried Jem with a look of 
disgust. “You will kill that child — you 
won’t give him a chance — you will kill him 
body and soul.” 

“La, Jem! how can you go on in that 
way !” cred the mother, and began to weep 
anew. “ He’s the apple of my eye, is that 
dear child.” 

“ None the better for that, by the look of 
’em,” said Jem. “ Howsomever, I’ll go to 
Mr. Capstick. Mind, I don’t want neither 
of you at my heels ; what I’ll do— I’ll do 
myself,” and without another word. Bright 
Jem took his cap, and, unceremoniously 
passing his visitors, quitted the room. His 
wife, looking coldly at the new-comers, in- 
timated a silent wish they would follow him. 
The look was lost upon Mr. Blast, for he 


immediately seated himself ; and seizing the 
poker, with easiest familiarity beat about 
the embers.. Mrs. Aniseed was a heroic 
woman. Nobody who looked at her, whilst 
her visitor rudely disturbed her coals, could 
fail to perceive the struggle that went on 
within her. There are housewives whose 
very heartstrings seem connected with their 
pokers ; and Mrs. Aniseed was of them. 
.Hence, whilst her visitor beat about the 
grate, it was at once a hard and delicate 
task for her not to spring upon him, and 
wrest the poker from his hand. She knew 
it not, but at that moment the gentle spirit 
of Bright Jem was working in her ; subdu- 
ing her aroused passion with a sense of hos- 
pitality. 

“ A sharp spring this, for poor people, 
isn’t it, Mrs. Aniseed ?” observed Mr. Blast. 

“ It seems quit the tail of a hard .winter, 
doesn’t it?” Mrs. Aniseed tried to smile a 
smile — she only shivered it. “ Well, I must 
turn out, I ’spose ; though I haven’t nothing 
to do till night — then I think I shall try an- 
other murder : it’s a long while since we’ve 
had one.” 

“ A matter of two months,” said the mo- 
ther of St. Giles, “ and that turned out no 
great things.” 

“ Try a murder,” said Mrs. Aniseed with 
some apprehension, “ what do you mean ?” 

“ Oh, there’ll be no blood spilt,” answer- 
ed Mr. Blast, “ only a bit of Grub-street, 
that’s all. But I don’t know what’s come 
to the people. They don’t snap as they 
used to do. Why, there’s that Horrible and 
Particular Account of a Bear that was fed 
upon Young Children in Westminster : I’ve 
known the time when I’ve sold fifty of ’em 
afore I’d blowed my horn a dozen times. 
Then there was that story of the Lady of 
Fortin that ‘had left Twins in the Cradle, 
and run off with her Husband’s Coachman 
— that was a sure crown for a night’s work. 
Only a week ago it didn’t bring me a groat. 

I don’t know how it is ; people get sharper 
and sharper, as they get wickeder and wick- 
eder.” 

“ And you don’t think it no harm, then,” 
said Mrs. Aniseed, “ to make bread of such 
lies ?” 

“ What does it signify, Mrs. Aniseed, 
what your bread’s made of so as it’s a good 
color, and plenty of it ? Lord bless you ; if 
you was to take away all the lies that go to 
make bread in this town, you’d bring a good 
many peck loaves down to crumbs, yoM 
would. What’s the difference atween me 
and some folks in some newspapers ? Why 
this : I sell my lies myself, and they sell ’em 
by other people. But I say, Mrs. Aniseed, 
it is cold isn’t it ?” 

Mrs. Aniseed immediately jumped at the ^ 
subtle purpose of the question ; and curtly, 
frozenly replied — “ It is.” 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


27 


** A drop o’ something wouldn’t be bad 
such a morning as this, would itl” asked the 
unabashed guest. 

“ La ! Tom,” cried St. Giles’s mother, in 
a half-tone of astonishment and deprecation. 

“ I can’t say,” said Mrs. Aniseed ; “ but 
it might be for them as like it. I should 
suppose, though, that this v»?oman — if she’s 
got anything of a mother’s heart in her — is 
thinking of something else, a good deal more 
precious than drink.” 

“ You may say that,” said the woman, lift- 
ing her apron to her unwet eye. 

“ And there’s a good soul, do — do when 
you get the dear child home again — do keep 
him out of the streets ; and don’t let him go 
about singing of ballads, and” — 

“ That’s almighty fine, Mrs. Aniseed,” 
said Mr. Blast, who, foiled in his drink, be- 
came suddenly independent in his language 
— “ all mighty fine ; but, after all, 1 should 
think singing ballads a little more genteel 
than bawling for coaches, and making dirty 
money out of fogs, and pitch and oakum. 
A ballad-singer may hold his head up with a 
linkman any day — and so you may tell Jem 
when you see him. Come along,” and Mr. 
Blast twitched the woman by the arm — 
“ come along : there’s nothing to be got 
here but preaching — and that will come in 
time to all of us.” 

“ Don’t mind what he says,” whispered 
St. Giles’s mother to Mrs. Aniseed, “he’s a 
good cretur, and means nothing. And oh, 
Mrs. Aniseed, do all you can with Mr. Cap- 
stick for my innocent babe, and I shan’t 
say my prayers without blessing you.” — 
With this, the unwelcome visitors departed. 

We must now follow Bright Jem to the 
house of the muffin-man. Jem has already 
told his errand to Mr. Capstick ; who, with 
evident sorrow and disappointment at his 
heart, is endeavoring to look like a man not 
at all surprised by the story related by him. 
Oh dear no ! he had quite expected it. “ As 
for what I did, Mr. Aniseed” — said Cap- 
stick— -“I did it with my eyes open. I 
knew the little vagabond was a lost wretch 
— I could read that in his face ; and then 
the muffins were somewhat stale muffins 
so don’t think I was tricked. No : I look- 
ed upon it as something less than a forlorn 
hope, and I won’t flatter myself ; but you 
see I was not mistaken. Nevertheless, Mr. 
Aniseed, say nothing of the matter to my 
wife. She said— not knowing my thoughts 
on the business — she said I was a fool for 
what I did : so don’t let her know what has 
happened. When women find out they’re 
right, it makes ’em conceited. The little 
ruffian!” cried Capstick with bitterness — 
“ to go stealing when the muffins might 
have made a man of him.” 

“ Still, Mr. Capstick,” urged Jem, “there’s 


something to be said for the poor child.-— 
His mother and the bad uns in Hog Lane 
wouldn’t let him have a chance. For when 
St. Giles ran home — what a place to call 
home r — they seized upon the muffins, and 
turning the bell and basket into butter, swal- 
lowed ’em without so much as winking.” 

“ Miserable little boy !” exclaimed the 
softened Capstick, — and then he groaned, 
“ Wicked wretches!” 

“ That’s true again,” said Jem ; “ and yet 
hunger hardly knows right from wrong, Mr. 
Capstick.” 

Capstick made no answer to this, but 
looking in Jem’s face, drew a long breath. 

“And about the boy I” said Jem, “he’s 
but a chick, is he, to goto gaol I” 

“ It’s no use — it’s all no use, Mr. Aniseed ; 
we’re only throwing away heaven’s time up- 
on the matter ; for if the little rascal was 
hanged at once — to be sure, he is a little 
young for that — nevertheless I was about to 
say,” — and here the muffin-man, losing the 
thread of his thoughts, twitched his cap 
from his head, and passed it from right 
hand to left, and from left to right, as though 
he sought in such exercise to come plump 
again upon the escaped idea — “ I have it,” 
at length he cried. “ I was about to say, as 
I’ve an idle hour on hand. I’ll walk with you 
to Lord St. James, and we’ll talk to him 
about the matter.” 

Now Bright Jem believed this of himsffif ; 
that in a good cause he would not hesitate — 
at least not much — to speak to his Majesty, 
though in his royal robes and with his royal 
crown upon his head. Nevertheless, the 
ease, the perfect self-possession, with which 
Capstick suggested a call upon the Marquess 
of St. James obtained for him a sudden re- 
spect from the linkman. To be sure, as we 
have before indicated, there was something 
strange about Capstick. His neighbors had 
clothed him with a sort of mystery ; hence, 
on second thoughts, Bright Jem believed it 
possible that in happier days the muffin-man 
might have talked to marquesses. 

“ Yes,” said Capstick, taking olFhis apron, 
“ we’ll see what can be done with his lord- 
ship. I’ll just whip on my coat of audience, 
and — hush ! — my wife,” and Mrs. Capstick 
stirred in the back parlor. “Not a word 
we’re going. Not that I care a straw ; only 
she’d say I was neglecting the shop for a 
pack of vagabonds ; and perhaps she’s right, 
though I wouldn’t own it. Never own a 
woman’s right ; do it once, and on the very 
conceit of it, she’ll be wrong for the rest of 
her life.” With this apothegm, the muffin- 
maker quitted the shop, and immediately his 
wife entered it. 

“ Glad to see your sister looking so well, 
Mr. Aniseed,” said Mrs. Capstick, some- 
what slily. 


THE HISTORY OE 


“ Oh ! what, you mean Kitty 1 Why, she 
looks as well as she can, and that isn’t much, 
poor soul,” said Jem. 

“ She was here yesterday, and bought 
some mulhns. A dark gentleman was with 
her,” said Mrs. Capstick. 

“ You mean the black footman,” observed 
Jem, dropping at once to the cold, hard 
truth. 

“ Well,” and Mrs. Capstick giggled, as 
though communicating a great moral dis- 
covery, “ well, there’s no accounting for 
taste, is there, Mr. Aniseed 1” 

“ No,” said Jem, “ it was never meant 
to be accounted for, I suppose ; else there’s 
a lot of us would have a good deal to answer 
for. Taste, in some things, I suppose, was 
given us to do what we like with ; but, Mrs. 
Capstick, now and then we do sartinly abuse 
the privilege.” 

“ Lor, Mr. Capstick ! where are you go- 
ing so line 1” asked his spouse of the muffin- 
maker, as he presented himself in his best 
coat, and swathed in a very voluminous 
neckcloth. “ Going to court 

“ You see,” said Capstick, “ a man — a 
wretch, a perjurer is to-day put in the pil- 
lory.” 

“ And what’s that to you, Mr. Capstick 1” 
asked his wife., 

“ Why, Mary Anne, as a moral man — 
and, therefore, as a man who respects his 
oath, I feel it my duty to go and enjoy my 
egg.” With this excuse — worthy of a Ti- 
mon — did the muffin-maker take his way 
towards the mansion of Lord St. James. — 
“ It’s a hard thing,” said Capstick on the 
road, “ a hard thing, that you can’t always 
tell a wife the truth.” 

“ I always tell it to my old woman,^’ ob- 
served Bright Jem. 

“ You’re a fortunate man, sir,” said Cap- 
stick. “ All wom.en can’t bear it : it’s too 
strong for ’em. Now, Mrs. Capstick is an 
admirable person — a treasure of a wife — 
never know what it is to want a button to my 
shirt, never — still, I am now and then obliged 
to sacrifice truth on the altar of conjugal 
peace. It makes my heart bleed to do it, 
Mr. Aniseed : but sometimes it is done.” 

Bright Jem nodded as a man will nod 
who thinks he catches a meaning, but is not 
too sure of it. “ And what will you say 1” 
asked Jem, after a moment’s pause — “what 
will you say to his Lordship, if he’ll see 
you 1” 

Mr. Capstick cast a cold, self-compla- 
cent eye upon the linkman, and replied— 
“ I shall trust to my inspiration.” Jem 
softly whistled — unconscious of the act. 
Mr. Capstick heard^ what he deemed a se- 
vere comment, and majestically continued : 
“ Mr. Aniseed, you may not imagine it— but 
I have a great eye for gingerbread.” 


“No doubt on it, Mr. Capstick,^^ said 
Jem, “ it’s a part of your business.” 

“ You don’t understand me,” replied the 
muffin-maker with a compassionate smile, 

“ I mean my good man, the gingerbread that 
makes up so much of this world. Bless 
your heart ! I pride myself upon my eye, 
that looks at once through all the gilding — * 
all the tawdry, glittering Dutch metal — that 
covers the cake, and goes at once to the 
flour and water.” 

“ I don’t see what you mean, by no 
means,” said Jem ; “ that is, not quite.” 

“ Look here, sir,” said Capstick, with the 
air of a man wffio had made himself up for 
an oration. “ What is that pile of brick 
before us 1” 

“ Why that you know as well as I,” an 
swered Jem ; “ it’s St. James’s Palace.” 

“ And there lives his gracious Majesty, 
George the Third. Now, I dare say, Mr. 
Aniseed, it’s very difficult for you to look 
upon his Majesty in what I shall beg leave 
to call, a state of nature 1” 

“What! like an Injun 1” asked Jem. 

“ Well, I must say, I can hardly fancy it.” 

“ Of course not. When you hear of a 
king, he comes upon you in velvet and fur, 
and with a crown upon his head — ^and dia- 
monds blazing upon him — and God knows 
how many rows of lords about him — and 
and then all the household guards — and the 
state coach — and the state trumpets, and 
the ringing bells — all come upon your mind 
as a piece and parcel of him, making a king 
something tremendous to consider — some- 
thing that you can only think of with a kind 
of fright. Is it not so 1” asked the muffin- 
maker. 

Jem merely answered — Goon, Mr. Cap- 
stick.” 

“ Now I feel nothing of the sort. I know 
the world, and despise it,” said the muffin- 
maker. 

“I’ll take your word for anything but 
that,” cried Jem. “ But go on.” 

“ I tell you, sir, I hate the ' world,” re- 
peated Capstick, proud of what he thought 
his misanthropy : “ and of sweet use has 
such hatred been to me.” 

Bright Jem cast an incredulous leer at 
the muffin-man. “ I never heard of the 
sweetness of hatred afore. I should as soon 
looked for honey in a wasp’s nest.” 

“ Ha 1 Jem, you know nothing ; else 
you’d know how a contempt for the world 
sharpens a man’s wits, and improves his eye- 
sight. Bless you 1 there are a thousand 
cracks and flav'^s and fly-spots upon every- ^ 
thing about us, that we should never see 
without it,” said Capstick. 

“Well, thank God! I’m in no need of 
such spectacles,” said Bright Jem. 

“ And for that very reason, Jem,” said 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


29 


the muffin-maker, “ you are made an every- 
day victim of — for that reason your verv 
soul goes down upon its knees to things that 
it’s my especial comfort to despise. You 
havn’t the wit, the judgment, to separate a 
man from all his worldly advantages, and look 
at him, as I may say, in his very nakedness 
—a mere man. N ow J em, that is the power I 
especially pride myself upon. Hence,” 
continued the muffin-maker, and he brought 
himself up fronting the palace, and extended 
his right arm towards it — “hence, I can 
take an emperor from his crowd of nobles — 
his troops — his palace walls — his royal robes, 
— and set him before me just as God made 
him. As I’d take a cocoa-nut, and tear 
away the husk, and crack the shell, and 
pare the inner rind, and come at once upon 
the naked kernal, — so Mr. Aniseed, can I 
take, — aye the Great Mogul, — and set him 
in his shivering flesh before me.” 

“ And you think the knack to do this does 
you good 1” modestly inquired Bright Jem. 

“ It’s my solace, my comfort, my strength,” 
answered the muffin-maker. “ And this 
knack, as 5 mu have it, is what I call seeing 
through the gold upon the gingerbread. 
Now, isn’t it dreadful to think of the thou- 
sands upon thousands who every day go 
down upon their knees, to it believing the 
gilded paste so much solid metal 1 Ha ! 
Mr. Aniseed ! we talk a good deal about the 
miserable heathen ; the poor wretches who 
make idols of crocodiles and monkeys, — but 
Lord bless us ! only to think in this famous 
city of London of the thousands of Christians, 
as they call themselves, who after all are 
idolaters of gilt gingerbread!” 

“ Poor souls !” said Jem, in the fulness 
of his charity, “ they don’t know any better. 
But you haven’t answered what I asked ; 
and that’s this 1 What will you say to his 
lordship if he’ll see you 1” 

“ Say to him ! I shall talk reason to him. 
Bless you I I shall go straight at the matter. 
When some folks go to speak to rich and 
mighty lords, they fluster, and stammer, as 
if they could'nt make themselves bqlieve 
that they only look upon a man made like 
themselves ; no, they somehow mix him up 
with his lands and his castles, and his heaps 
of money, — and the thought’s too big for ’em 
to bear. But I will conclude as I began, 
Mr. Aniseed. Therefore I say I have a 
great eye for gilt gingerbread.” 

This philosophical discourse brought the 
talkers to their destination. Jem stooped 
before the kitchen-window's, prying curious- 
ly through them. “What seek you there, 
jeml” asked Capstick. 

“ I was thinking,” answered Jem, “ if I 
could only see Kitty, we might go in through 
the kitchen'.” 

Mr. Capstick made no answer — but look- 
ing a lofty reproof at Jem, he took two 


strides to the door, and seizing the knocker, 
struck it with an assertion of awakened dig- 
nity. “Through the hall, Mr. Aniseed; 
through the hail ; no area-stairs influence 
for me,” As he made this proud declara- 
tion, the door was opened ; and to the as- 
tonishment of the porter, the muffin-maker, 
asked coolly as though he was cheapening 
pippins at an apple-stall — “ Can we see the 
Marquess 1” 

The porter had evidently a turn for hu- 
mor : he was not one of those janitors who, 
seated in their leathern chairs, ^•esent every 
knock at the door as a violation of their 
peace and comfort. Therefore, curling the 
corners of his mouth, he asked in a tone of 
comic remonstrance, — “ Now what do you 
want with the Marquess 1” 

“ That the Marquess shall be benefited by 
knowing,” answered Capstick. “ There is 
my name and the muffin-maker, with in- 
creasing dignity, handed his shop-card to 
the porter. 

“ It’s no use,” said the porter, shaking 
his head at the card, — “ not a bit of use. 
We don’t eat muffins here.” 

At this moment, Cesar Gum, the African 
footman, appeared in the hall, and with 
greatest cordiality welcomed Bright Jem. 

“ Come to see Kitty ? — she delight to see 
you — come down stairs.” 

“ Will you take this to the Marquess 1” 
and twitching his card from the porter’s fin- 
gers, Capstick gave it to Cesar. The black 
felt every disposition to oblige the friend of 
Kitty’s brother, — but raised his hands and 
shook his head with a hopeless shake.— 
“ Stop,” said Capstick. He took the card, 
and wrote some words on the back of it. 
He then returned it to the porter. 

“ Oh !” cried the porter, when he had 
read the mystic syllables. “ Cesar, I ’spose 
you must take it,” and Cesar departed on 
the errand. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Nov/, we hope that we have sufficiently 
interested the reader, to make him wish to 
know the precise magic words which, opera- 
ting on the quickened sense of a nobleman’s 
porter, caused him suddenly to put a mar- 
quess and a muffin-maker in mutual commu- 
nication. What Open Sessarne could it be, 
that written by a St. Giles, should be worthy 
of the attention of St. James 1 Great is tha 
power of letters ! Whirlwinds have been 
let loose — fevers queilched, and Death him- 
self made to drop his uplifted dart — by the 
subtle magic of some brief lex scripta, some 
abracadabra that held in the fluid some 


30 


THE HISTORY OP 


wondrous spirits, always to be found like 
motes in the sunbeams, in a magician’s ink- 
bottle. Mighty is the power of words ! 
Wondrous their agency — their volatility. 
Otherwise how could Pythagoras, writing 
words in bean-juice here upon the earth, 
have had the self-same syllables printed 
upon the moon 1 What a . great human 
grief it is that this secret should have been 
lost ! Otherwise what glorious means of 
publication would the moon have offered ! 
Let us imagine the news of the day for the 
whole world written by certain scribes on 
the next night’s moon — when she shone ! 
What a blessed boon to the telescope-ma- 
kers ! How we should at once jump at all 
foreign news ! What a hopeless jargon of 
blood and freedom would the Magi of Spain 
write upon the planet ! How would the big- 
hearted men of America thereon publish 
their price-current of slaves — the new rate 
of the pecimia viva, the living penny in 
God’s likeness — as the market varied ! And 
France, too, would sometimes with bloody 
pen write glory there, obscuring for a time 
the light of heaven, with the madness of 
man. And Poland, pale with agony, yet 
desperately calm, would write — “ Patience, 
and wait the hour.” And the scribes of St. 
Petersburgh would placard “ God and the 
Emperor” — blasphemous conjunction ! And 
the old Pope would have his scrawl — and 
Indian princes, and half-plucked nabobs — 
and Chinamen — and Laplanders — and the 
Great Turk — and — 

No — no! Thank heaven! the secret of 
Pythagoras — if indeed he ever had it, if he 
told not a magnificent flam — is lost ; other- 
wise, what a poor scribbled moon it wmuld 
be ; its face wrinkled and scarred by thou- 
sands of quills — tattooed with what was 
once news — printed with playhouse bills 
and testimonials gracefully vouchsafed to 
corn-cuiters ! No. Thank God ! Pytha- 
goras safely dead, there is no man left to 
scrawl his pothooks on the moon. Her light 
— like too oft the light of truth — is not 
darkened by quills. 

And after this broomstick flight to the 
moon, descend we to the card of Capstick, 
muffin-maker. The words he wrote were 
simply these — “ A native of Liquorish, with 
a vote for the borough.” 

Now, it is one of the graceful fictions of 
the English constitution — and many of its 
fictions no doubt pass for its best beauties, in 
the like manner that the fiction of false hair, 
false color, false teeth, passes sometimes for 
the best loveliness of a tinkered face — it is 
one of these fictions that the English peer 
never meddles with the making of a member 
of the House of Commons. Not he. Let 
the country make its lower house of senators 
as it best may, the English peer will have 


no hand in the matter. He would as soon, 
in his daily walks, think of lifting a load 
upon a porter’s back, as of helping to lift a 
commoner into his seat. We say, this is a 
fiction of the constitution ; and beautiful in 
its influence upon the human mind, is fiction. 
Now, the Marquess of St. James had in his 
father’s lifetime represented the borough of 
Liquorish. He was returned by at least a 
lumdred and fifty voters as' independent as 
their very limited number permitted them to 
be. The calumny of politics had said that 
the house of St. James carried the borough 
of Liquorish in its pocket, as easily as a man 
might in the same place carry a rotten apple 
or a rotten egg. Let the reader believe 
only as much of this as his charity will per- 
mit him. 

Now, it oddly enough happened that, at the 
time when Capstick sought to approach the 
Marquess, parliament was near its dissolu- 
tion. The wicked old hag was all but 
breathing her last, yet — case-hardened old 
sinner ! — she expressed no contrition, showed 
no touch of conscience for her past life of 
iniquity ; for her wrongs she had committed 
upon the weak and poor ; for the nightly 
robberies upon them who toiled for the espe- 
cial luxury of those who, like the tenants of 
a cheese, lived and crawled upon unearned 
pensions ; she repented not of the blood she 
had shed in the wickedness of war ; never 
called about her soft-hearted, tearful, most 
orthodox bishops, to assuage the agony of 
her remorse, and to cause her to make a 
clean breast of all her hidden iniquity. No. 
Parliament was about to expire — about to 
follow her sinful predecessors (what horrid 
epitaphs has History written upon some of 
them !) and she heard no voice of conscience ; 
all she heard was the chink of guineas 
pursed by bribery for her successor. 

Even the Marquess’s porter felt the com- 
ing of the new election. His fidelity to his 
master and his patriotism to merry England 
had been touched by a report that the borough 
of Liquorish was about to be invaded by some 
revolutionary spirit, resolved to snatch it from 
the time-honored grasp of the house of St. 
James, and — at any cost — to wash it of the 
stain of bribery. Somebody had dared to say 
that he would sit for the independent borough 
of Liquorish if every voter in it had a gold 
watch, and every voter’s wife a silver tea-pot 
and diamond ear-rings. This intelligence 
was enough to make all true lovers of their 
country look about Jhem. Therefore did the 
porter consider Mr. , Capstick — although a 
muffin-man — a person of some importance to 
the Marquess. Capstick was a voter for the 
borough of Liquorish — that was bought and 
sold like any medlar — and therefore, to the 
mind of the porter, one of the essential parts 
of the British constitution : hence, the porter 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


31 


was by no means astounded when Cesar re- 
turned with a message that Mr. Capstick 
was to follow him. 

The miiffin-maker passed along, in no way 
dazzled or astonished by the magnificence 
about him. He had made his mind up to be 
surprised at notliing. Arabian splendors — 
it was his belief — would have failed to dis- 
turb the philosophic serenity of his soul. He 
had determined, according to his own theory, 
to extract the man from the Marquess — to 
come, as he would say, direct at humanity 
divested of all its worldly furniture. Bright 
Jem meekly followed the misanthrope, tread- 
ing the floor with gentlest tread ; and wond- 
ering at the freak of fortune that even for a 
moment had enabled him, a tenant of Short’s 
Gardens, to enter such an abode. Bright 
Jem could not help feeling this, and at the 
same time feeling a sort of shame at the un- 
expected weakness. He had believed him- 
self proof to the influence of grandeur, — 
nevertheless, he could not help it; he was 
somewhat abashed, a little flurried, at the 
* splendor around, him. He was not ashamed 
of his poverty ; yet he somehow felt that it 
had no business intruding in such a paradise. 

In a few moments, the muffin-maker and 
Jem found themselves in a magnificent 
library. Seated at a table was a short, 
elderly little man, dressed in black. His 
face was round as an apple. He had small, 
sharp, grey eyes, which for a few moments 
he levelled steadily at Capstick and Jem, 
and then suddenly shifted them in a way 
that declared all the innermost and dearest 
thoughts of the muffin-maker to be, at that 
glance, read and duly registered. “Pray be 
seated,” said the gentleman ; and Capstick 
heavily dropped himself into a velvet chair. 
Bright Jem, on the contrary, settled upon the 
seat lightly as a butterfly upon a damask 
rose : and like the butterfly, it seemed doubt- 
ful with him, whether every moment he 
would not flutter off again. Capstick' at 
once concluded that he was in the presence 
of the Marquess. Jem knew better, having 
seen the nobleman ; but thought possibly it 
might be some earl or duke, a friend or rela- 
tion of the family. However, both of them 
augured well of their mission, from the easy, 
half-cordial manner of the illustrious gentle- 
man in black. His words, too, were low and 
soft, as though breathed by a flute. He 
seemed the personification of gentleness and 
politeness. Nevertheless, reader, he was not 
of the peerage : being, indeed, nothing more 
than Mr. Jonathan Folder, librarian — and at 
times confidential agent — to the Marquess of 
St. James. He had just received the orders 
of his lordship to give audience on his behalf, 
to what might be an important deputation 
from the borough of Liquorish : hence, Mr. 
Folder, alive to the patriotic interest of his 
employer and friend — as, occasionally, he 


woifld venture to call the Marquess — was 
smihng and benignant. 

“ Mr. Capstick — I presume you are Mr. 
Capstick” — and Mr. F’'older, with his usual 
sagacity, bowed to the muffin-maker — “ we 
are glad to see you. This house is always 
open to the excellent, and patriotic voters of 
Liquorish. There never was a time, Mr. 
Capstick, when it more behoved the friends 
of the Constitution to have their eyes about 
them. The Britislr Constitution — ” 

“ There is no constitution like it,” observed 
the muffin-maker, drily. 

“ That’s an old truth, Mr. Capstick” — said 
Mr. Folder — “ and, like all old truths, all the 
better fpr its age.” 

“ No constitution like it,” repeated the 
muffin-maker. “I don’t know how many 
times it hasn’t been destroyed since I first 
knew it — and still it’s all alive. The British 
Constitution, my lord, sometimes seems to 
me very like an eel ; you may flay it and ^ 
chop it to bits ; yet, for all that, the pieces 
wfill twist and wriggle again.” 

“ It is one of its proud attributes, Mr. 
Capstick” — said Folder, doubtless he had 
not heard himself addressed as my lord — 

“ one of the glories of the Constitution, that 
it is elastic — peculiarly elastic.” 

“ And that’s, I suppose, my lord” — surely 
Mr. Folder was a little deaf — “ that’s why it 
gets mauled about so much. Just as boys 
don’t mind what tricks they play upon cats — 
because, poor devils, somebody, to spite ’em, 
has said they’ve got nine lives. But I beg 
your pardon, this is my friend — Mr. James 
Aniseed, better known as Bright Jem,” and 
Capstick introduced the linkman. 

Mr. Folder slightly rose from his chair, 
and graciously bowed to Jem ; who, touched 
by the courtesy, rose bolt upright ; and then, 
after a moment’s hesitation, he took haif-a- 
dozen strides towards Mr. Folder, and — ere 
that gentleman was aware of the design — 
shook him heartily by the hand. Then, Jem, 
smiling, and a little flushed, returned to his 
chair. Again taking his seat, he looked 
about him with a brightened, happy face, for 
Mr. Folder — the probable nobleman — had re- 
turned the linkman’s grasp with a most 
cordial pressure. 

“ And, Mr. Aniseed,” said Folder, “ I pre- 
sume you have also a voice in the constitu- 
tion ; you have a vote for — ’’ 

“ Not a morsel, my lord,” answered Jem. 

“ I havn’t a voice in anything ; all I know 
about the constitution is that it means taxes ; 
■for you see, my lord. I’ve only one room, and 
that’s a little un — and so, you see, my lord. 
I’ve no right to notliing.” Whilst Jem pur- 
sued this declaration, Mr. Folder, doubtless 
all unconsciously, rubbed his right hand with 
his liandkerchief. Tlie member might, possi- 
bly, have caught some taint from the shake 
of a low man without a vote. 


32 


THE HISTORY OF 


“ Nevertheless, Mr. Capstick, we are happy 
to see you,” said Folder, with a strong em- 
phasis upon the pronoun. “ Public morality 
— I mean the morality of the other party — is 
getting lower and lower. In fact, 3 should 
say, the world — that is, you know what part 
of the world I mean — is becoming worse and 
worse, baser and baser.” 

“ There is no doubt of it, my lord,” answer- 
ed Capstick — “ for if your lordship — ” ^ 

Capstick had become too emphatic. It 
was therefore necessary that Folder should 
correct him. “ I am not his lordship. No, 
I am not,” he repeated, not unobservant of 
the arched eyebrows of the muffin-maker — 
“ I am deputed by his lordship to receive you, 
prepared to listen to your wishes, or to the 
wishes of any of the respectable constituents 
of the borough of Liquorish. We are not 
unaware,- Mr. Capstick, of the movements of 
the enemy. But we shall be provided against 
them. They, doubtless, will be prepared to 
tamper with the independence of the electors, 
but as I have said” — and Folder let his words 
fall slowly as though they were so many 
gems — “ as I have said, there we can beat 
them on their own dirty grounds.” 

“ There is no doubt whatever of it,” said 
Capstick, “ none at all. And then, in these 
matters, there’s nothing like competition, — 
nothing whatever. For my part, I must say, 
I like to see it — it does me good — an elec- 
tion, such an election as we have in Liquor- 
ish, is a noble sight for a man who, like my- 
self, was born to sneer at the world. At 
such a time, I feel myself exalted.” 

“ No doubt, no doubt,” said Mr. Folder. 

“ Then I feel my worth, every penny of 
it, in what is called the social scale. For 
instance, now, I open the shop of my con- 
science, with the pride of a tradesman who 
knows he’s got something in his window that 
people must buy. I have a handsome piece 
of perjury to dispose of — ” 

“ Mr. Capstick ! Perjury !” cried Folder, 
a little shocked. 

“ Why, you see, sir,” said Capstick, 
“ for most things, there’s two names — a 
holiday name, and working-day name.” 

“ That’s true,” said Jem — and then he 
added with a bow to Folder, ‘‘ saving your 
presence, sir : quite true.” 

“ Yes, I’m a voter with a perjury jewel 
to sell” — said Capstick — and therefore 
isn’t it delightful to me, as a man who hates 
the world, to have fine gentlemen, honor- 
able gentlemen, yes titled gentlemen, com- 
ing about me and chaffering with me for 
that little jewel — that when they’ve bought 
it of me, they may sell it again at a thump- 
ing profit 1 The Marquess isn’t that sort of 
man — ” 

“ I should hope not, Mr. Capstick,” said 
Folder, with a smile that seemed to add — 
impossible. 


“ Certainly not. But isn’t it, I say, plea- 
sant to a man-hater like me, to see this sort 
of dealing — to know that, however mean, 
and wicked, and rascally, the voter is who 
sells his jewel — he is taught the meanness, 
encouraged in the wickedness, and more than 
countenanced in the rascality, by the high 
and lofty fellow with the money-bag. Oh ! 
at the school of corruption, arn’t there some 
nice high-nob ushers 1” 

“ Never mind that, Mr. Capstick,” said 
Bright Jem, who began to fear for the suc- 
cess of their mission, if the muffin-maker 
thus continued to vindicate his misanthropy. 
“ Never mind that. We can’t make a sore 
any better by putting a plaster of bad words 
to it : never mind that ; — but, Mr. Cap- 
stick,” said Jem earnestly, “ let’s mind some- 
thing else.” 

“ Then I’m to understand,” said Mr. Fol- 
der, who in his philosophy had been some- 
what entertained by the philippics of the 
muffin-maker — “ I am to understand, that 
your present business in no way relates to 
anything connected with the borough I” 

“ Not at present,” said Capstick, “ only I 
hope that his lordship won’t forget that I 
have a voice. Because — ” 

At this moment the door flew open, and a 
child — a beautiful creature — gambolled into 
the room. It was young St. James. The 
very cherub, as Kitty Muggs would have 
called him, robbed by the iniquitous, the 
hopeless St. Giles. Truly he was a lovely 
thing. His fair, fresh young face, — inform- 
ed with the innocence, purity, and happiness 
of childhood, — spoke at once to the heart of 
the beholder. What guilelessness was in 
his large blue eyes — what sweetness at his 
mouth — what a fair white expanse of brow 
— adorned with clustering curls of palest 
gold ! His words and laughter came bub- 
bling from the heart, making the sweetest 
music of the earth ; the voice of happy child- 
hood ! A sound that sometimes calls us 
from the hard dealing, the tumult, and the 
weariness of the world, — and touches us with 
tender thoughts, allied to tender years. 

“ What a beautiful cretur !” whispered 
Jem to the muffin-maker. “ He’s been kept 
out of the mud of the world, hasn’t he 1 I 
say ; it would be a hard job to suppose that 
blooming little fellow — with rags on his back, 
matches in his hand, and nothin’ in his bel- 
ly, eh 1 Quite as hard as to think young St. 
Giles was him, eh 1 And yet it might ha’ 
been, — mightn’t if?” 

“ Here is the future member for Liquor- 
ish,” said Mr. Folder, the child having run 
up to him, and jumping upon his knees. 
“ Here, sir, is your future representative.'”' 

“Well, if he keeps his looks,” said Jem 
aside to Capstick, “ you won’t have nothing 
I to complain.” 

‘ “ Of course, the borough will be kept warm 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


33 


for the young gentleman,” said the muffin- 
man. “ He may count upon my vote — yes, 
I may say, he may depend upon it. In the 
meantime, sir, I come upon a little business 
in which that young gentleman is remotely 
concerned.” 

“You^ion’t mean the shameful robbery 
last night V’ said Mr. Folder. “ A frightful 
case of juvenile depravity ! Another proof 
that the world’s getting worse and worse.” 

“No doubt of it,” said Capstick ; “ worse 
and worse ; it’s getting so bad, it must soon 
be time to burn it up.” 

“ The poor little boy who did it, sir,” said 
\ Bright Jem, very deferentially, “ didn’t know 
any better.” 

“ Know no better ! Impossible ! Why, 
how old is he 1” asked Mr. Folder. 

“ Jist gone seven, sir, not more;” an- 
swered Jem. 

“ And here’s this dear child not yet sev- 
en ! And do you mean to ;tell me that /le 
doesn’t know better 1 Do you mean in your 
ignorance to insinuate that this young gen- 
tleman would do such a thing — eh 1” cried 
folder of the abashed linkman. 

“ Bless his dear, good eyes, no” — said 
Jem with some emmotion — “ sartinly not. 
But then he’s been taught better. Ever 
since he could speak — and I dare say almost 
afore — every night and day he was taken 
upon somebody’s knees and teached to say 
his prayers — and what was good and what 
was bad — and besides that, to have all that 
was quiet and happy and comfortable about 
him — and kind words and kind looks that 
are almost better than bread and meat to 
children — for they make ’em kind and gen- 
tle too — now, the poor little boy that stole 
that young gentleman’s hat — ” 

“ I don’t want the hat,” cried the child, 
for he had heard the story of the wicked boy 
at the playhouse — “ 1 don’t want it — he may 
have it if he likes — I told papa so.” 

“ Bless you, for a sweet little dear,” said 
Jem, brushing his eyes. 

“ The truth is, sir, I came here,” said 
Capstick, “ I came as a voter for the inde- 
pendent borough of Liquorish — to intercede 
with the magnanimity of the Marquess for 
the poor little wretch — the unhappy baby, 
for he’s no more — now locked up for fe- 
lony.” 

- “What’s the use 1” asked Mr. Folder, 
dancing the scion of St. James upon his 
knee, — “ what’s the use of doing anything 
for such creatures 1 It’s only throwing pity 
away. The boy is sure to be hanged some- 
time — depend upon it, when boys begin to 
steal, they can’t leave it off — it’s impossible 
— it’s against nature to expect it. I always 
give ’em up from the first — and, depend up- 
on it, it’s the shortest way in the end ; it 
saves a deal of useless trouble, and I may 
say false humanity. As for what children 


I are taught, and what they’re not taught — 
why I think we make more noise about it 
than the argument’s worth. You see, Mr. 
Capstick, there is an old proverb : what’s 
bread in the bone, you know — ” 

“ Why, sir, saving your presence, if wick- 
edness goes down from father to son, like 
color — the only way I see to make the 
world better is to lay hold of all the bad peo- 
ple, and put ’em out of it at once ; so that 
for the future,” concluded Jem, “ we should 
breed nothing but goodness.” 

“ Pray, my good man” — asked Mr. Fol- 
der — “ are you the father of the thief?” 

“ No, sir. I’m not. I wish I was with 
all my heart and soul,” cried Jem with ani- 
mation. 

“ Humph, you’ve an odd taste for a fa- 
ther,” shortly observed Mr. Folder. 

“ What I mean, sir, is this,” said Jem, 
I’ve the conceit in me to think that then the 
boy wouldn’t have been a thief at all. He’d 
then been better taught, and teaching is 
everything. I’d have sent him to school, 
and the devil hasn't such an enemy nowhere 
as a good schoolmaster.* Even now I 
should like to try my hand upon him, if I 
could have him all to myself, away from the 
wickedness he was hatched in.” 

“ I dare say you mean very well, my 
man, no doubt of it,” said Mr. Folder. “ Still, 
I think, the boy had a little taste of the 
jail,—” 

“ A little taste,” groaned Jem, “ if he has 
ever so little, he’s pisoned for life ; I know 
that, I’ve seen it afore.” 

“ And so, sir,” resumed Capstick, “ I am 
come as a petitioner, and as a voter of the 
borough of Liquorish, to ask his lordship’s 
compassion upon this wretched child.” 

“ Well, I’m sure, Mr. Capstick, I’ll see 
what’s -to be done, I’m sure I will. Now 
will you,” — and Mr. Folder addressed him- 
self smilingly to the child, — “ will you ask 
papa, for your sake, to forgive the naughty 
boy that run away with your hat ?” 

“ Oh, yes, that I will,” answered the child 


* I will not say a village schoolmaster is a 
more important person in the state i;han he who 
is pecnliai’ly entrusted with the education of 
tha Prince of Wales, though I think keh a far 
more important personage than the highest state 
officer in the King^s household. The materiat 
he has to deal with is man, and I think it 
should be rather harsh to venture to limit his 
range or capacities. — Lord Morpeth at the York 
Diocesan National Education Society. [Mad 
a plebeian enunciated this great truth, he would 
from certain quarters, have been pelted with 
the sounding yet harmless epithets of dema- 
gogue and revolutionist. Here, however, it is 
an English nobleman who places a village 
schoolmaster above a royal chamberlain. All 
honor to such nobility ! ] 


34 


THE HISTORY OF 


eagerly, “ You know I don’t care about the 
hat — I’ve plenty of hats. I’ll run to papa 
now,” and the child jumped from Folder’s 
knee, and bounded from the room. 

“ There, my man,” said Folder, with a 
smile of triumph to I3right Jem, “ there you 
see the spontaneous work of a good na- 
ture.” 

“ With good teaching,” said Jem. “ I 
know’d the little cretur that’s now locked up 
— I knowed him when he was a babby, and 
if he’d only had fair play he’d ha’ done the 
same thing.” 

“ Let us hope he’ll improve if he’s forgiv- 
en,” said Mr. Folder. “ I will, however, go 
to his lordship, and know his fate.” With 
this, Mr. Folder quitted the apartment on 
his benevolent mission. 

“ Whata^capital thought it was of you, Mr. 
Capstick to come here — it never entered my 
head,” said Jem. 

“ Nothing like approaching the fountain 
source,” said Capstick serenely. “Besides, 
I know an election is near at hand ; and as 
an election approaches, you can’t think how 
it takes the stiffness out of some people. 
There’s no accounting for it, I suppose, but 
so it is.” 

“ A great many books here, Mr. Cap- 
stick,” — said Jem, looking reverentially at 
the loaded shelves — “ I wonjer if his lord- 
ship’s read ’em all.” 

“ Humph,” answered the scoffing muffin- 
maker, “ it’s not so necessary to read a li- 
brary ; the great matter’s to get it. With a 
good many folks heaps of books are nothing 
more ^han heaps of acquaintance, that they 
promise themselves to look in upon some 
day.” 

“ Well,” said Jem, his eyes glistening, “ I 
never see books all in this fashion, without 
thinking that the man as has ’em is a 
kind of happy conjurer, that can talk when 
he likes with all sorts of good spirits, and 
never think a flea-bite of half the rubbish 
in the world about him.” 

Jem had scarcely uttered this hopeful sen- 
tence, when young St. James ran in, quick- 
ly followed by Mr. Folder. “Yes, yes,” 
cried the child, all happiness, “papa says 
I must forgive him, as we ought * always 
to forgive one another — and you’re to tell 
him from me that he’s to be a good boy and 
never do so again.” 

“ Bless your sweet heart !” cried Bright 
Jem, and the tears sprang to his eyes. The 
muffin-maker said nothing, but coughed and 
bowed. 

“ There, I think, Mr. Capstick,” said Fol- 
der, in a low voice, “there, I think, is a 
future treasure for the borough. I trust 
you’ll not let this little story be lost on the 
good folks of Liquorish. Nobody will appear 
against the culprit, and therefore take him, 
and if you can, among you, make a bright 


man of him. Good morning, Mr. Capstick-— 
good morning,” and Folder bowed the visit- 
ors from the room. Bright Jem paused at 
the door, and looking back at the child, cried, 
“ God bless you every day of your life.” 

Jem and the muffin-maker were about to 
quit the house, when they were accosted by 
Cesar Gum in the hall. In a confidential 
whisper, he said — “ Come and take some 
turkey and wine for lunch : prime Madeary 
— den we can go to jail for tief : dreadful 
ting, taking oder people’s goods — come and 
hab some wine.” And then in a still lower 
tone — “ Give you bottle for yuself.” 

To this invitation, Capstick made no an- 
swer ; hut having looked up and dgwn at the 
black, strode to the door. Bright Jem nodd- 
ed — uttered a brief good morning, and fol- 
lowed his companion into the street, leaving 
Cesar Gum — who had wholly forgotten Jem’s 
previous indignation at the peculated gun- 
powder — in astonishment at his rejected hos- 
pitality. 

“ We’ll now go to Bow-street,” said Cap- 
stick ; and fast as they could walk, they took 
their way to that abode of justice. They 
arrived there only a few minutes before the 
arraignment of young St. Giles at the bar ; 
where he stood, in his own conceit, a minia- 
ture Turpin. 

“ Where are the witnesses — who makes 
the charge?” There were no witnesses. 
Again and again his worship put the ques- 
tion. And then he said, “ No one is here 
who knows anything of the matter. The 
prisoner must be discharged. Boy, don’t let 
me see you here again.” Young St. Giles 
put his thumb and finger to his hair, jerked 
a bow, and in a few moments was free — free 
as the air of Hog-Lane. 

Jem and Capstick followed him into the 
street. The muffin-maker seizing him, cried 
— “ You little rascal ! What do you say for 
your lucky escape ?” 

“ Say !” answered young St. Giles — 
“Why, I know’d it was all gammon — I 
know’d they could prove nothin’ agin me.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

As it is our hope, in the course of this 
small history, to chronicle many great a- 
chievements of our hero of the gutter, St. 
Giles, — we shall not follow him year by 
year through his humble yet industrious 
course, in which, to his own satisfaction and 
strengthening conceit, he became profound- 
ly knowing ; subtly learned in every way of 
petty peculation ; whether he plundered the 
orange-baskets of Covent Garden market, 
or whether, with finest skill, he twitched the 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES, 


' 35 


tempting handkerchief from the pocket of 
the lounger. Nor was this, his lowly ca- 
reer, undignified by suffering. No : for ere 
he was twelve years old, he had tasted the 
hospitality of Bridewell ; where, in truth, he 
had been inducted into the knowledge of far 
deeper mysteries than he had ever hoped to 
learn. In Bridewell, his young and ardent 
soul had expanded with the thoughts of fu- 
ture fame, won by highway pistol — or bur- 
glar’s jemmy. And there, too, would he lis- 
ten to fairy tales of coining : would dream 
of easy, lasting wealth, acquired by copper 
guineas. As for the lash bestowed upon 
him, the pain of that did but burn into his 
mind his high resolves. He would the more 
fiercely revenge the suffering upon every- 
body called honest. He would steal with all 
his heart and all his soul ; he was born and 
bred to steal ; he came into the world to do 
it, and he would notably fulfil his mission. 
Such was the strengthened belief of young 
St. Giles, when, at fourteen and for the se- 
cond time, he came back to the world across 
the threshold of Bridewell. Such was his 
creed ; the only creed his world had taught 
him. Nevertheless, our hero did not vaunt 
this belief, save among those of his own 
Newgate persuasion; on the contrary, he 
assumed the character of a tradesman, that 
under his commercial aspect he might the 
more securely plunder the innocents who 
dealt with him. True it is, he had not the 
security of a shop ; he could not, like his pa- 
tron the dealer in marine stores, despoil 
across a counter ; but he carried a basket ; 
and whilst to the unsuspecting eye, he seem- 
ed only the Arcadian vender of chick weed, 
groundsel, and turf for singing-birds — for 
the caged minstrels of the poor — he was, in 
every thought, a robber. 

It was a fine morning early in spring, and 
PI umtree- street resounded with the sharp 
tradesman cry of St. Giles. Pausing at a 
door-step, and looking up to the second-floor 
windows, he pitched his commercial note 
with a peculiar significance, as though giv- 
ing notice of his whereabout to an expected 
customer. “ Chickweed for singing-birds,” 
cried St. Giles, in a shrill, prolonged voice, 
as though he would send the glad tidings up 
to the garret casement, where hopped and 
fluttered some solitary linnet — some lonely 
goldfinch — that feeling the breath of spring, 
albeit through prison bars, sang a song of 
hope and cheerfulness. “ Chickweed for 
singing-birds,” cried St. Giles, with increas- 
ing volume and impatience. Then again he 
looked up at the window, and then mutter- 
ed, “ The old un can’t be dead, can she 1” 
As he thus speculated, the window was rais- 
ed, and a woman looked down into the street. 
“ Is-it you, my poor boy 1” she cried ; “ stop 
a minute :” and instantly disappeared. — 
“ Thought the old un couldn’t be dead,” said 


St. Giles, self-communing ; and then he be- 
gan to hum a tune and shuffle a dancing- 
step upon the pavement. The door was 
opened by a girl, who, with no very cordial 
looks, muttered, “ Mrs. Simmer — well, she’s 
a droll cretur, she is ! — Mrs. Simmer says 
you’re to come up. You can leave you’re 
basket here, can’t you 1” 

■ “In course, my beauty,” said St. Giles, 
“ ’cause, you see, there’s only these two 
bunches left ; and them I can carry in my 
hand without breaking my back.” With 
this, St. Giles, rapidly placing his basket 
against the wall, gave a saucy wink to the 
servant, and bounded like a kid up stairs. 
In a moment he was with his patroness, 
Mrs. Simmer. 

“ My poor child, I thought you was lost,” 
said the dame in the kindest voice. “ What 
makes you so late 1” 

“ Why, do you know mum, I can’t tell 
what’s come to the chickweed : it doesn’t 
grow no how, now. If I wasn’t at five in 
the morning in Hampstead fields, a hunting 
in every edge, and haven’t got above three 
penn’orth. Chickweed, mum, as Tom Blast 
says, seems a perishin’ from the face of the 
earth, and only to spite poor people as lives 
by it. I don’t know how much I couldn’t 
ha’ sold this mornin’ ; but I says to myself 
— no, there’s Mrs. Simmer’s blessed little 
linnet, and her darlin’ goldfinch as draws his 
own water, — they shan’t go without, who- 
ever does.” 

“ Poor dear child ! good little boy,” said 
Mrs. Simmer, looking with softened looks 
upon the wily little trader. 

“ And to hear how all the birds did seem 
to call to me from their cages — I’m blessed 
if they didn’t, mum, as I came along — but 
no, says I to ’em, it’s no use, my little cook- 
ies, no use to be gammonin’ me — this here 
chickweed’s for Mrs. Simmer’s Bob and 
Tit, and for nobody else whatsoraever.” 
And after this fashion was the simplicity of 
two-score and ten talked to and duped by 
precocious fourteen. 

But dear Mrs. Simmer seemed to be one 
of those good, old people, who strangely 
enough carry their hearts in their heads. 
She had not been above a fortnight in Lon- 
don at the time of this interview with St. 
Giles, whom she had met in the street, and 
whose pathetic tale of destitution — deliver- 
ed with the cunning of an actor, — had car- 
ried away her sympathies. St. Giles, how- 
ever, had another claim upon her. Pie was, 
she said, such a pretty boy. Dear soul ! 
she could no more read a human face than 
she could read Sanscrit. She only saw the 
bright, glittering eyes of St. Giles, and not 
the fox that looked from them ; she 
praised his eyes and face, as she might 
have praised a handsome hieroglyph, whol- 
ly unconscious of its subtle meaning. A 


36 


THE HISTORY OF 


great master has said, “ there is something 
in true beauty that vulgar souls cannot ad- 
mire.” And sure we are, there is something 
in the truest rascality, that simple benevo- 
lent souls cannot detect. They have not 
an eye for the worst counterfeit counten- 
ance ; have no ear for a false voice, let it 
ring ever so brassily. Now, dear Mrs. Sim- 
mer was one of these : hence, was she, at 
fifty, but a babe, an innocent, in the hands 
of young St. Giles. 

“ Now, my poor child” — she said “ take 
some tea. I’ve kept it for you, with some 
toast ;” and Mrs. Simmer took a smoking 
jug and a plate piled with toast from either 
hob, and placed them on the table, before 
her guest. “ Take as much as you can, 
my child, and then you shall tell me all your 
story as you promised. Poor lamb ! Bless 
you, eat — it does my heart good to see you ;” 
and Mrs. Simmer, folding her hands, looked 
with almost maternal tenderness upon St. 
Giles, who acknowledged the welcome wdth 
a knowing nod of the head, proceeded vig- 
orously with his meal. Mrs. Simmer 
thought she never saw so handsome a crea- 
ture ; what St. Giles thought of Mrs. Sim- 
mer, we will not say. “ And so you’ve no 
father nor mother, my dear boy 1” after 
some time asked Mrs. Simmer. 

“ Not one on ’em,” answered St Giles, 
rapidly moving his buttered chin. “ Not 
one on ’em.” 

“ The Lord help you !” cried Mrs. Sim- 
mer : “ and no uncle, no aunt, no” — 

“No nothing, mum,” said St. Giles ; and 
he gulped his tea. “ All on ’em died, mum. 
When I was a baby.” 

“ Poor dear child ! Bless my heart ! And 
how have you been brought up 1” 

“ Brought up, mum” — and St. Giles grin- 
ned and scratched his head — “ you said 
brought up, mum 1 Don’t know, mum.” 

“ And where do you live now, my poor 
boy 1” and Mrs. Simmer melted with every 
question. 

“ Don’t live nowhere, reg’lar, mum. — 
Poor boys, like me, why we live — as Tom 
Blast says — like the rats, where we can. 
Then o’ nights, mum, I sometimes sleeps in 
the market among the baskets. Sometimes, 
though, don’t they come with a stick, and 
cut us out ! I believe you !” and St. Giles 
seemed to speak with a lively recollection 
of such incidents. “ Cuts the werry breath 
out o’ you,” he then significantly added. 

“ Cruel creatures! Gracious little lamb! 
And Pm afraid you meet with bad boys 
there, eh? Wicked boys, that may some 
day tempt you to do something wrong? 
Eh ?” asked simple Mrs. Simmer. 

“ Believe you,” said St. Giles, with well- 
acted gravity. “ Lots on 'em wanted me to 
go picking pockets — ” 

“ Heaven forbid !” cried Mrs. Simmer, 
and the tears came to her eyes. 


“ That’s what I said, mum ; no, says I, 
no, 1 shall stick to chickweed if I starves 
for it — I’m not a-going to be hanged to please 
nobody : no, mum.” 

“ That such a precious flower should be 
thrown away !” cried Mrs. Simmer to her- 
self; and then to St. Giles: “You’re a 
good boy ; I’m sure you’re a good boy. 
And tell me ; I hope you go church ?” 

“ Oh, I should like it so !” cried St. Giles : 
“but you see, mum, it’s impossible.” 

“ How so, my boy ?” asked Mrs. Simmer. 

“ Look here, mum,” and St. Giles, with 
the coolness of a philosopher, drew his feet 
up almost level with the table, and with his 
forefinger pointed to his ten muddy toes, 
that showed themselves through the parted 
shoe-leather. “ Parson wouldn’t have ’em, 
by no means. I did once try to go to 
church ; I did begin to feel so wicked. — 
Well, mum, if the beadle didn’t come up, 
mum, and nearly cut me in two, mum.” 

“ How wicked — how barbarous !” said 
the ingenuous Mrs. Simmer. 

“ And only for my bad shoes, and the oles 
in my coat ; but that’s how they serves poor 
boys, mum. I don’t think it’s kind, mum : 
do you mum ?” And St. Giles tried to look 
at once injured and innocent. 

Mrs. Simmer w'iped her eyes, making an 
effort to be calm. She then said, “ I’ve 
been thinking, if I could get you a place in 
a gentleman’s house.” 

“ Wouldn’t that be prime?” cried St. Giles; 
and as he spoke, there rang through the 
house a loud and hurried knock at the street- 
door. Mrs. Simmer, without a word, jump- 
ed to her feet, and ran to the window. 

“ Well, I declare ! if it isn’t that blessed 
child ! if it isn’t his lordship !” she cried. 

Young St. Giles at the word lordship, slid 
from his chair, and looked slyly about him. 
Was it possible that a lord could be coming 
into that room ? Could he imagine such a 
thing as to see a real lord in such a place ? 
Ere St. Giles had done wondering, the 
room-door was flung open, and in ran young 
St. James. St. Giles seemed to shrink in- 
to himself at the splendid appearance of the 
new-comer. He wore a bright scarlet coat, 
thickly ornamented with gold buttons ; and 
a black beaver hat with a large, heavy fea- 
ther of the same color, brought out in strong 
contrast his flushed and happy face. For the 
moment, young St. Giles felt himself over- 
powered, abashed by the magnificent out- 
side of the little stranger. He sidled into a 
corner of the room, ancl looked at that scar- 
let coat as though it had been something 
dropt from the heavens. “ W’^ell, nurse,” 
cried St. James with a loud, ringing laugh, 
“ I told you I’d come and see you, and here 
I am. 1 went out riding with Mr. Folder. 
Well, he stopt to talk to somebody, and so I 
jusft give him the slip, put Jessy into such a 
gallop I and was here in a minute. I say. 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 




Can’t that boy” — and St. James pointed his I 
riding-whip towards St. Giles — “ can’t that | 
boy hold Jessy, instead of the girl V’ I 

“ To be sure, my lord— to be sure,” said 
Mrs. Simmer. 

“ Certainly, my lord— directly, my lord — 

I knows how to hold osses, my lord,” said 
St. Giles in a flutter. 

“ Just walk her up and down a little, will 
you, for she's hot,” said St. James, with an 
early knowledge of horse-flesh. 

“ Yes, my lord — to be sure, my lord — 
walk up and down, my lord and St. Giles 
flew down the stairs, and relieved the 
girl of her charge. Young St. James was 
then left to have his gossip with Mrs. Sim- 
mer : from which gossip a stranger might 
have learned that the good woman had, for 
years, been in the service of the family of 
St. James ; that she had been the favorite 
nurse of his young lordship ; and that for 
the first time in her life she had come to 
London from the country, where, made com- 
fortable by a pension granted to her by the 
marchioness, after a short sojourn in the me- 
tropolis, it was her purpose to return. She 
had been to the house in the square, where 
young St. James had made his chivalrous 
promise to visit her ; yes, at all hazards, to 
seek Plumtree-street, out of pure love, and 
a little frolic, to his old nurse. “ Oh, I shall 
be at home now before Mr. Folder,” said 
young St. James, in answer to the fears of 
Mrs. Simmer, alarmed at the escape of the 
young gentleman from his tutor. However, 
we must leave them and descend to the 
pavement to St. Giles. 

With an air of becoming gravity, the boy 
led the pony up and down before the door, 
his eyes riveted upon the beast ; certainly a 
creature of extreme beauty. She was jet 
black, of exquisite delicacy of outline ; and 
her arched neck, quivering nostril, and fiery 
eye, told something for the spirit and horse- 
manship of the boy who rode her. Up and 
down St. Giles walked ; and now look- 
ing at the animal, now thinking of the boy 
lord, it appeared to him that all the treasures 
of the world were concentrated in that pony 
— that St. James was a sort of earthly an- 
gel ; a being of altogether another kind to 
the boys St. Giles had ordinarily met with. 
There was something so magnificent about 
the pony and its rider, — that only to have had 
his lordship speak to him — that only to hold 
the bridle of his steed, seemed in the confused 
brain of St. Giles to redeem him from some- 
what of his misery and lowliness. He could 
not but think the better of himself for all 
time to come. He had spoken to a lord — 
had held his horse ! Could any of his gut- 
ter companions boast such greatness 1 — 
These thoughts were busying the mind of 
St. Giles, when he heard himself addressed 
by a familiar voice. “ What ! my flower i” 


I was the greeting ; and St. Giles, turning, 
1 beheld his friend \and tutor, Tom Blast. St. 
j Giles, in his last retirement to Bridewell, 
had had the advantage of Tom’s tuition ; and 
to speak truly, the teacher and pupil were 
worthy of each other. Tom was a scoun- 
drel of most extensive experience ; and had 
the happy art of so simplifying his knowl- 
edge, that he made it available to the mean- 
est understanding. St. Giles, however, had 
no need of any such condescension : he 
could jump at a meaning — good or bar! — > 
half-way. Hence, the teacher and the 
taught respected each other for their mutu- 
al excellence. In fact, Tom Blast looked 
upon young St. Giles, as his Newgate son ,; 
and St. Giles — in default of another — con- 
sidered Tom as the best of fathers. 

“ What have you got here 1” asked Tom, 
his eye sparkling all over the pony. 

“ Got a oss to old,” said St. Giles, with 
an inquiring look at Tom. Then he added, 
sinking his voice — “ it belongs to a lord : 
sich a little chap, and yet a lorH ” 

“ Well, she’s a beauty,” ©aia Diast ; 
“ make her walk a. little faster.” 

“ She is a beauty,” cried St. Giles, boldly 
venturing an opinion, and quickening the 
animal’s pace. 

“What a sweet trot!” said Blast, “so 
light and so free I why she wouldn’t break 
a egg-shell I would she 1” 

“ I should think not,” answered St. Giles, 
a little flattered that his opinion was solici- 
ted. ‘ . 

“ Come up !” cried Blast, urging the 
beast into a quicker pace. “ Come along, 
sweet-lips !” 

“ Stop, Tom ; stop !” said the prudent 
St. Giles, when he had arrived in Bedford- 
square. “ Blest if we don’t turn back, if 
they won’t think we’re a going to steal her ; 
and that wouldn’t do, no how, would it 
Tom I” asked the boy, and his eye encoun- 
tered Tom’s thoughtful look. 

“ Why, — no,” answered Tom with some 
deliberation. “ No ; it wouldn’t — ^turn her 
round again ; and walk her gently, Giles ; 
gently, pretty cretur.” And as St. Giles 
complied, Tom turned too, walking with 
meditative eye that now glanced at the boy 
and now at the pony. Ambitious thoughts 
busied the brain of the small, timid thief, 
Tom Blast ; and he pondered on the means 
whereby he could reap the profits of a stolen 
horse, still assuring to himself exemption 
from the tragic penalty. For many years 
Tom had from time to time eaten stolen 
bread ; nevertheless, he had lived, as it 
were, upon the crumbs, the broken morsels 
of crime. He had never had the courage 
to dare Tyburn that he might dine, but he 
satisfied himself with the pickings of petty 
larceny. No : he never promised to earn 
for himself either biography or portrait in 


38 


THE HISTORY OF 


the Newgate Calendar. Hence, he was a 
little perplexed at the temptation that would 
intrude itself upon him as he glanced at 
Lord St. James’s satin-coated pony. For- 
tune seemed willing to make him a hand- 
some present of horse-flesh, if he had only 
the valor to accept it. No : he w'ould 
not be tempted : he had resolved to die a 
natural death, and therefore he resolutely 
dismissed the demon that would destroy him. 
Nevertheless, he thought it possible that 
policy might achieve what courage failed to 
attempt. He might accomplish all by a 
stroke of wit, profiting in security by the 
danger of another. St. Giles might be 
made the robber, and Tom Blast, in happiest 
safety, pocket the proceeds. Thus rumi- 
nating, Tom again reached Mrs. Simmer’s 
door. 

“ Not wanted yet,” said St. Giles, look- 
ing from the door to the window. “ We’ll 
give her another trot, eh 1” And at the 
word the pony was turned towards Bedford- 
square. . 

“ Gently,” said Blast, “ gently. Why 
don’t you have a ride upon her 1 The 
young lord wouldn’t know nothing of it. 
And what if he did 1 He couldn’t take the 
ride out of you again. Only not so big, 
else she’s the very pictur — yes the very 
moral of Hick Turpin’s Bess,” said Blast, 
looking critically, admiringly, at Jessy. — 
“ Get up, and don’t be a young fool,” he 
added ; and then St. Giles — he hardly 
knew how it was accomplished — found him- 
self in the saddle. “ There, that’s some- 
thing like life, isn’t it,” said the tempter 
suddenly, speaking from the whole breadth 
of the pavement and every other minute 
looking cautiously behind him the while he 
mended his pace, and St. Giles jerked the 
pony into a trot. “ That’s something like 
living for, eh 1 and I should like to know 
why you shouldn’t have it just as soon as 
any little lord whatsomever 1” 

“ Ha ! wouldn’t that be prime, Tom 1” 
cried St. Giles, his eyes sparkling, and face 
glowing. “ Wouldn’t it be prime 1” 

“ It’s nothing more than w'hat you ought 
to have ; why you ride as well as if you 
was born upon her back — give her her head 
a little more — now down this way,” sharply 
added Blast ; and then rapidly turning to the 
right, he ran On, St. Giles trotting hard after 
him. Arrived at the east side of Russell- 
square, Tom suddenly halted. “ Now, St. 
Giles,” said he, “ are you man enough to 
make your fortin 1” 

“ I should think so,” said Giles, in high 
spirits with his feat of horsemanship. 

“ Now listen to a friend, Giles — a friend 
as never yet deceived you,” said Blast with 
sudden gravity. “ Throw away this bit of 
’uck and you may never get another. Take 
the pony and sell it.” St. Giles stared. — 


“ Why not you fool ! you may as well *’ — 
cried Blast — “ you’ve stole it you know” — 
“ Stole it !” cried St. Giles. 

“ It’s all the same ; there’s nobody as 
would believe otherwise — so I’ll stand your 
friend, and get you the money for the bar- 
gain. Ha ! I see — you havn’t no pluck in 
you — not a bit,” said the taunting friend. 

“ Ain’t I though ! just you see !” cried 
young St. Giles, determined to do anything. 

“ Well, then, as you’ve got yourself in a 
bit of trouble. I’ll stand by you. Now, you 
listen ; just dash as hard as you can through 
the fields, and then turn to the right — and 
so round and round, until — ■•you know the 
way — until you drop down upon Smithfield. 
Then make for Long I^ane ; and then just 
afore you get to the Blue Posts — get off and 
lead the pony up and down as if you was 
holding her for somebody — and then in a 
crack I’m with you. Now, look sly, and 
your fortin’s made. Young Turpin for ever ! 
Off with you !” And so saying the Tyburn 
monitor slapt the pony smartly with his 
broad hand, and the mettlesome creature 
bounded forth, young St. Giles with difficul- 
ty keeping the saddle. Away went the 
pony up the Long fields and away towards 
Islington ! The words “ young Turpin ” 
still rang in the ears of St. Giles, as he can- 
tered along. He felt that he had already 
done something worthy the exalted name 
bestowed upon him ; and as his blood moun- 
ted with the exercise, he imagined future 
triumphs that would make him glorious. — 
The robbery of the horse was — for a time — 
altogether forgotten in the increased impor- 
tance that had fallen upon him. He dreamt 
not of the punishment attending the theft ; 
he only thought of the hatful of guineas that 
the stolen property would produce him. 
And then, as he rode, how pretty and con- 
temptible did his former pickings and steal- 
ings appear to him ! be almost felt ashamed 
of himself, comparing his past petty larce- 
nies with his last grand achievement. From 
that moment he had taken leave of boyhood. 
He had suddenly become a man, % the 
grace of daring felony. Then — he thought 
— how should he ever be able to spend the 
money 1 Would he not have a scarlet coat 
with gold lace to it 1 ay, much finer than 
the little lord’s ! And would he not go to 
the play every night, and have his hot sup- 
per afterwards 1 And would he not flourish 
money in a hundred -w'ays that should make 
all his old companions — the little dirty, pal- 
try thieves of Hog Lane — look up to him 
with devotion and astonishment 1 
^ Still young St. Giles ambled along, and 
still the world seemed changed to him. He 
was in a waking dream — a rapture of hap- 
piness ! All things about him bore a bright- 
er hue ; all things sounded with a sweeter 
music ; his brain seemed on wings, and his 


,ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


39 


lightened heart danced in his bosom. And — • 
poor wretch — this ecstacy of ignorance 
arose from evil, from a crime whose fatal 
effects, certain as death, would follow him. 
Still the very houses, to his fancy, took a 
new and pleasant aspect ; wherever he look- 
ed he saw a new face of happiness — what- 
ever he heard came toned with a new note 
of harmony. He saw not the blackened 
stones of Newgate — heard not the freezing 
accents of the death-dooming judge. Mise- 
rable, foolish wretch ! 

Yet how often do men — in the ripeness 
of worldly wisdom — imitate the folly, share 
the ignorance of young St. Giles ! Ela- 
ted by the commission of some profitable 
wrong, seeming secret, too, as profitable — 
how often to them does Fortune seem to put 
on a new and shining Jface, when at the very 
time she grasps the lash, or drugs the bitter 
bowl that shall revenge the wickedness. 
For a brief time does successful evil put 
a new tint of outside beauty upon all the 
world ; and happy knavery rejoices in the 
cunning that makes the world to him so 
beautif^ul. What a plodding, leaden-eyed 
fool is mere honesty ! what an oaf, an ass, 
compared to him who squares his code of 
morals by his seeming interest ! And then 
full surely time advances, and the world, 
that looked so fresh and smiling, is hollow- 
cheeked and ghastly — its beauty wiped away, 
even as a harlot’s paint. Successful knave- 
ry, dizzied with its luck, sees suddenly deli- 
cious scenes — a paradise of worldly joy and 
life-long rest — then, waking to the truth, 
beholds around it burning, barren sand. If 
the mature pilgrims of the world are some- 
times so deceived, why not the boy St. 
Giles 1 

Still the young, yes, and happy, felon 
trotted on, until he entered Smithheld. He 
then walked the pony slowly up Long Lane, 
and soon he espied the Blue Posts, faithful 
to his orders, he dismounted, looking anxious- 
ly around him for his friend and instructor, 
Tom Blast. A quarter of an hour passed, 
and still he came not. And then for the 
first time, he looked at the stolen goods 
with lowering eyes, and his heart felt leaden. 
What was he to do with the pony without 
Tom 1 Nobody would buy it of him. And then 
a deeper and a deeper shadow fell upon all 
things ; and, biting his lips, young St. Giles, 
with eyes quick as rats’ — looked about and 
about him. What an ugly brute the pony seem- 
ed to him ! Yes : he knew what he would do : 
he would jump upon the pony — gallop back 
to Plumtree-street, and swear he had only 
been for a ride. Anything to be well clear 
of the pony. With this thought St. Giles 
had his foot in the stirrup, when he was 
tapped upon the shoulder by a man plainly 
and comfortably dressed in a dark-grey suit, 
wearing a light flaxen wig in tight 'curls, 


' surmounted by a large beaver hat, scrupu- 
lously sleek. He had a broad, fat face, 
with a continual smile, laid like lacker upon 
it, And, when he spoke, he spoke very 
gently and very softly, as with lips of butter. 

“ My dear little boy,” said the stranger, 
patting St. Giles affectionately on the back, 
“ where have you been so longP’ 

St. Giles looked — he could not help it — 
very suspiciously at the stranger; then 
scratching his head, he observed, “ Don’t 
know you, sir.” 

“ I dare say not ; how should you, my 
dear 1 But you -will know me, and for a 
friend. I’ve waited for you, these ten min- 
utes.” 

St. Giles said nothing : nevertheless hi^ 
thoughts were never more active. He by 
no means liked the appearance of his new 
friend ; he felt afraid of him. He would 
fling himself into the saddle, and gallop off 
As he determined upon this, the stranger, in 
the gentlest manner, twitched the bridle 
from his hand, and gently said, “ My little 
dear, it’s all right.” 

“ All right !” cried St. Giles ; and some- 
how he felt that his stolen pony was about 
to be stolen from him — “ what’s all right I” 

“ You came from Plumtree-street.” St. 
Giles winced. “ Now you know you did ; 
don’t tell a lie, my little dear ; for don’t you 
know what comes of little boys who teli 
lies 1 I have seen your friend, and paid 
him : it’s all right ; but as you’re such a 
nice little boy, here’s a guinea for yourself.” 
St. Giles’s heart rose somewhat at the 
guinea. “ You’re to go into the house, and 
wait for Mr. Blast.” St. ‘Giles’s eyes 
twinkled at the name : of course as the strang- 
er averred, it must be all right. “ Stop, don’t 
change the guinea ; here’s a shilling too, 
my little dear. Now, go in — I don’t want 
to be thanked — only let me see you go in, 
that you mayn’t come to any harm in the 
street.” St. Giles, taking a last look at the 
pony, entered the Blue Posts. The stranger 
and the pony went — who shall say whither? 

St. Giles meekly seated himself in a cor- 
ner of the hostelry, ordering for his refec- 
tion twopennyworth of ale, and some bread 
and cheese. And when he had somewhat 
solaced his inward boy, he began to wonder 
when Tom Blast would come. Hour after 
hour passed, and still ,St. Giles remained 
alone. Again and again he looked at the 
clock — again and again at the guinea. 
Never before had he possessed such wealth : 
and the contemplation of his riches in a 
great measure abated his anxiety for the ar- 
rival of Tom ; even though he thought of 
him as the bearer of other guineas, the pur- 
chase-money of the pony. Still, there was 
the charm, the fascination of ready gold to 
comfort St. Giles : the glitter of the money 
held him like the eye of a snake. His only 


40 


THE HISTORY OF i 


only perplexity was how he could best 
spend it. He was deep in these thoughts 
when, the room having filled, his attention 
was awakened and afterwards possessed by 
a man who, talking very loudly — and with 
his clenched fist beating the table the while 
— about what he called the abstract beauty 
of honesty, gradually hushed all speakers 
into reverent listeners. The man was about 
the middle-time of life, drest somewhat like 
a grazier. He* seemed prematurely bald, 
which questionable defect gave to his head 
an outside look of wisdom, possibly not war- 
ranted by the contents. He had one of 
those large clear faces, often called open, 
because probably there is nothing positive 
,in them. He w'as earnest and voluble in 
his speech, as though his arguments welled 
up from his heart, and would out. 

“ You have said, sir,” he cried, “ that 
honesty is the best policy. You have been 
pleased to call that a golden maxim.” 

“ I have,” answered a huge, dull-looking 
man, in a butcher’s coat. “ I have,” he re- 
peated ; sucking his pipe, and winking his 
small eyes. 

“ Sir,” cried the bald-headed orator, “ I 
call it the maxim of a rogue and a rascal.” 

“ Hallo ! Hallo !” cried some, and “ Prove 
it — prove it,” shouted others. 

“ Prove it ! Why, it’s as plain as the door 
of Newgate. Now, listen, gentlemen, if you 
please. Honesty is the best policy, that’s 
what I have to tackle. Very w^ell. What 
is honesty ? I ask you that. Why, I sup- 
pose, it’s not to pick a man’s pocket — it’s 
not to steal his purse, or his coat, or his 
sheep, or his horse !” Young St. Giles 
turned his eyes from the speaker. “ It’s not 
to put off bad money, or to give short mea- 
sure, or light weight.” 

“ Stick to the pint,” cried a man with an 
apron, apparently a small shopkeeper. 

“ I am sticking to it,” resumed the orator. 
“ Now I tell you again that that maxim isn’t 
the maxim of a good man, but of a rascal ; 
of a fellow that wants to be rewarded for not 
stealing — for not passing off bad money — for 
not giving short measure. He says, no, says 
he. I’ll be honest, not because I love honesty 
for itself, but because it’s all to my advantage 
to be honest. Now, I ask you, isn’t that the 
trick, the cunning, of a sly fellow ? What 
does he know about what 1 beg leave to call 
honesty in the abstract ?” 

“ Stop, old fellow ; not so fast,” cried the 
shopkeeper. “ I never heard of that. What 
is honesty in the abstract ?” 

“ Why, it’s honesty stript of all flummery 
and nonsense,” was the answer ; in a word, 
it’s honesty stark-naked.” 

“ I see,” said the butcher, winking know- 
ingly. “ I see : just as the Lord Mayor — 
with his robes and his gold chain, and every 
rag and tliread in the world stript off him 


— would be the abstract of a lord mayor.** 

“ That’s it ; just it,” said the bald-headed 
man. “ Now, I ask, is any man here a 
friend of the lord mayor’s ?” 

“ 1 am” — “ And I” — “ And I” — “ And I,” 
cried several. 

“Very well; now suppose you got noth- 
ing by him ? Suppose you never got a din- 
ner out of him, or a little favor of any sort — 
or a bow — or so much as a civil word of 
him — well, would you be his friends still ? 

1 ask you that.” There was no reply. 

“ Well, then, the Lord Mayor’s nothing to 
you in the abstract, and your friendship’s not 
worth a brass farthing. In the same way 
that the man who follows honesty because - 
it’s the best policy, follows it for what is no- 
thing more than a mean and dirty advantage. 
No, gentlemen. Make honesty not the best 
policy, and then show me the man that loves 
it. That’s my man — that’s the true heart, 
gentlemen. JBut, to follow honesty because 
it’s the best policy — why, I repeat it, it’s no- 
thing more than the calculation of a sneak- 
up — of a fellow that hasn’t the courage to be 
a rogue. No; give me honesty naked as 
truth ; that’s the honesty I love best. I don’t 
want to be bribed for being honest ! Eh 
and he gazed triumphantly around him. 

“ I want you,” said a man, putting his 
head in at the door, and looking with strange 
significance at the speaker. 

“ God bless me !” cried the orator, and im- 
mediately obeyed the summons. 

Oh, abstract honesty ! bleed for thy wor- 
shipper ; for in less than three minutes was 
he handcuffed at the door on a charge of 
street robbery. 

To return to young St. Giles, an attentive 
though unenlightened listener to tlie lecturer 
upon honesty. St. Giles had heard of 
honesty : had some dim notion of its mean- 
ing. It was a something especially made 
for people who had all things comfortable 
about them : so much he knew of honesty : 
but for honesty in the abstract, — in that he 
was as ignorant, ay, as even some of his 
betters. 

I’he hours passed, and still Tom Blast 
came not. Evening approached — night shut 
in — midnight came, and St. Giles, with a 
heavy heart, though lightened somewhat by 
his guinea, turned into the street. He could 
not go home — no ; at least, for a time. Hog 
Lane must be to him a forbidden Paradise. 
No matter. Had he not a guinea — a whole 
guinea — to himself? The thought, even in 
the midnight street, fell like a sunbeam upon 
him ; he sprang from the pavement with a 
shout, reckless with his wealth. He would 
make a night of it — yes, he would have all 
things glorious ! And with this hilarious wil-, 
fulness, he took to his heels, and was speed- 
ily housed for the night within the verj 
shadow of Newgate. 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


41 


CHAPTER VIIL 

For more than a week did St. Giles live 
upon his guinea. True it is, that for the 
first day or two he dined and supped in the 
Apollo of an eastern cook-shop ; besides 
taking his luncheon of fried fish in the 
Minories, for the which delicacy, the He- 
brews, thereabout dwelling, enjoy a just re- 
nown. But tliese days of carnival past, St. 
Giles economised, with a fine knowledge of 
the resources of the metropolis. Threepence 
awarded to him the sweets of sleep beneath 
a.roof ; and a shilling saw him safely through 
the day. However, let not the reader ima- 
gine that St. Giles — like ndany a great genius 
— was made dull and inactive by the golden 
reward of his ability — a circumstance to be 
so often deplored in the case of great authors, 
great painters, and especially of great phi- 
losophers ; wherefore, it is questionable, if 
the world would not really gain more by 
them if it never rewarded them at all. St. 
Giles was by no means one of these. No : 
he still kept his eyes wide open at the doings 
of life ; still hived in that odd, world-twisted 
little brain of his, all sorts of knowledge for 
the future day. He especially employed 
part of his time dodging about the haunts of 
Tom Blast ; but, strange to say, that inte- 
resting person never showed himself in any 
of his wonted places of ease and recreation. 
Again and again did St. Giles travel Long- 
Lane — again slink and spy into every haunt 
in the fond and foolish hope of once more 
meeting with the soft-spoken man who, at 
the ruinous price of one guinea one shilling, 
had purchased a pony of incomparable Arab 
blood. St. Giles, with all his friendship, all 
his gratitude for Tom, could not hut feel 
that he had been tricked, bamboozled by his 
tutor : and the nearer and nearer he ap- 
proached to his last shilling, the more in- 
tense was his indignation — the more insati- 
able his thoughts of revenge. Yes, it was 
strange ; but the poorer St. Giles became, 
the less tolerant was he of human frailty. 
And this uncharitableness is only another of 
the thousand evils to be shunned in poverty. 
Therefore, reader, if only to cultivate charity, 
cultivate wealth : virtue blossoms on a gold- 
en bough. 

It was the ninth day of St. Giles’s absence 
from his maternal home, and the pilgrim of 
London stood before a house of humble en- 
tertainment in Cow Cross. The time was 
noon ; and St. Giles, feeling the last three- 
pence in his pocket— turning them over, one 
by one — was endeavoring to arbitrate be- 
tween pudding and bed. If he bought a cut 
of pudding — and through the very window- 
pane he seemed to nose its odor — he had not 
wherewithal to buy a lodging. What of 
that ? London had many doorways — hos- 
pitable stone-steps — for nothing; and pud- 


ding must be paid for. Still he hesitated : 
when the cook-shop man removed the pud- 
ding from the window. This removal im- 
mediately decided St. Giles. He rushed 
into the shop, and laid down his last worldly 
stake upon the counter. ‘‘ Threepenn’orth 
o’ puddin’, and a good threepenn’orth.” said 
St. Giles. With a look of half-reproof and 
half contempt, the tradesman silently exe- 
cuted the order ; and in a few moments, St. 
Giles stood upon the king’s highway, devour- 
ing with great unction his last threepence. 
Whilst thus genially employed, he heard a 
far-off voice roaring through the muggy air: 
his heart beat, and he ate almost to choking, 
as he listened to these familiar words : — ■ 
“ A most True and Particular Account of 
the Horrible Circumstance of a Bear that 
has been Fed upon Five Young Children in 
a Cellar in Westminster V' It was the 
voice of Blast ; and St. Giles swallowed his 
pudding, hurriedly used the back of his hand 
for a napkin, and following the sound of the 
crier, was in a trice in Peter-street, one of 
the mob that circled the marvel-monger of 
Hog-Lane. Nevertheless, though Tom 
roared with an energy that very strongly 
declared his own faith in the horror that he 
sought to vend for only one halfpenny, still 
his auditors lacked credulity or coppers, for 
the well-worn enormity. Nobody purchased. 
Not even a timorous, sympathizing servant- 
maid advanced through the crowd to make 
the mystery her own. Tom looked about 
him with evident disgust at what he had 
heard called the advancement of the age ; 
he had heard of the nuisance, and now he 
beheld it. His standing in the world as a 
tradesman was fast crumbling from beneath 
his feet. St. Giles was hurrying up to his 
old and early friend, when at a short distance 
he beheld his former patron, Capstick, the 
muffin-maker, and Bright Jem. They look- 
ed, as he thought, somewhat curiously at 
his friend Tom, and then seemed to take 
counsel of one another. Under these cir- 
cumstances, St. Giles thought that to accost 
Tom, would be to call unnecessary attention 
to himself. He therefore remained, shrunk 
down among the mob that every moment be- 
came less and less. What, too, made it 
most discouraging to Mr. Blast were the 
scoffs and loud laughter with which certain 
new-comers would listen to the description 
of the horror sought to. be circulated, and 
then hurry off. “ That cock won’t fight 
now !” cried one — “A little late in the day 
for that. Get something new,” cried an- 
other. “ Gammon !” shouted a third. 

Nevertheless, be of good heart, Tom 
I Blast : take consolation from this. You 
suffer in great society : you sink in most 
worshipful companioustip. Very reverend, 
grave, authoritative persons — men of the 
bench, even of the pulpit — who for centuries 


42 


THE HISTORY OF 


sold to their exceeding profit, “ Most True [ 
and Particular Accounts” of a horrid bear | 
of some sort — whether of royal or feudal 
privilege — of witchcraft — of popery — of 
sham rebellion — nay, fifty bears and bug- 
bears, all of horrid, ghastly nature, — they, 
too, in their turns, have outlived the profit- 
able lie. And even in these latter days, 
when some Tom Blast in higher places, — 
nay, in the highest — sounds his tin horn of 
bigotry, and would trade upon some bear 
apocryphal, — he is assured in the like sense, 
although in gentler phrase, that such cock 
will by no means fight — that the day has 
passed for so foolish, vain a story — that, 
finally, his bear is no bear at all, but briefly, 
et intensely — gammon. Has* not history 
er catch-pennies, even as the archives of 
Seven Dials 1 

Mr. Blast was somewhat of a philosopher. 
He could have borne the laughter and scoff- 
ing of the crowd, if any of them had bought 
his ware ; but his philosophy was not of that 
transcendental kind, to endure outrage, un- 
mitigated by any sort of coin, even the 
smallest, current in the realm. He there- 
fore, with a sotto voce expression of the 
deepest contempt for his hearers, broke 
from the crowd, passing on, and then — his 
legs evidently walking in a passion — turn- 
ing, he strode still onwards until he entered 
Cow Lane. Here, St. Giles, hanging at 
his skirts, came up with him. 

“Well, if it isn’t a sight for bad eyes to 
see you !” said the unabashed Tom. “ But 
don’t let’s talk in the street.” And Tom 
made for an oppo.site public-house, one of 
his customary places of call, unknown to 
St. Giles. Stalking through the passage, 
followed by his young friend, he made his 
way into a small, dark, low room. “ I 
thought there’d be nobody here,” said Tom ; 
and then in a tone of great tenderness and 
anxiety, looking straight in the eyes of St. 
Giles, he asked, “ Well, and luhere have 
you been t They’re mad about you in the 
Lane. Where have you been!” 

“ Why, I’ve been looking for you,” said 
St. Giles, moodily, shaking his head. “ You 
must have know’d that.” 

“ And that’s, I suppose, why we didn’t 
happen to meet,” replied Tom ; possibly 
recollecting that his chief care had been to 
keep out of the boy’s way. “ Why, what’s 
the matter 1 you look plaguy sarcy ! What 
are you looking so black at, you young 
devil 1” cried Tom, with sadden ferocity ; 
but St. Giles felt his injuries, and was not 
to be browbeaten. 

“ Why, I’m a looking at you, — and not 
much to look at neither,” shouted St. Giles, 
with answering vigor. “ Yoi^’re not a goin’ 
to frighten me, I ran tell you. Why didn’t 
you come as you promised you would 1 
You’re a good un, you are.” 


I “ Now, what does ail the boy 1” said Tom, 

I coaxingly, though evidently ill at ease : for 
his fingers worked, and he bit his lip as he 
gazed on the boy, who with sullen, defying 
air, returned his look. 

“ Why, this ails me. Didn’t you tell me 
to take that pony to Long Lane — and then 
didn’t you tell me to wait for youl” 

“ I know it; Giles ; I know it ; but, you 
see, as I went along, I thought agin over 
the matter. I thought, you see, it might 
lead you into trouble if I came ; so I thought 
I’d stav away, and you’d bring the pony 
home agin, and then, mayhap, after a little 
breeze, there’d •be an end of the matter. 
That’s it, Giles,” said cautious Mr. Blast. 

“ Then why did you send the man as gave 
me a guinea, and took the pony away 1 and 
as said, too, that he’d made it all right with 
you, and that — ” 

Here St. Giles was interrupted in his 
volubility by Mr. Blast; who performed — 
and an admirable performance it w^as — a look 
of immense astonishment, at the same time 
whistling very vehemently. At length, 
mastering his w'onder, he cried — “ Why, 
Giles! you’ve never sold the pbny "I” 

“ No. I never sold it — but you did ; the 
gemman told me so. You sold it ; and after 
that—” 

Mr. Blast could scarcely contain himself, 
so big, so swelling w'as his compassion for 
the injured boy. “ Oh, Giles,” he cried — 
“poor little I’ellowl .. You’re done, Giles; 
you’re done.” 

“ And who’s done me "? Why, you have,” 
screamed the youngster, in a paroxysm of 
passion. All childhood vanished from his 
face ; so suddenly was it convulsed with 
rage. He stood, for a moment, breathless 
with emotion ; and forgetful in his fury of 
the bulk and strength of his former teacher, 
he clenched his little fist, and grinding his 
teeth, advanced towards Blast, who, for a 
moment, recoiled from the small assailant. 
Then recovering himself, he laid his hands 
upon his knees, and wdth an effort to be 
calm, contemptuous, said — “ And this, you 
little varmint, is your thanks to me ; to me, 
you scorpin, as has been better than a father 
to you 1 To me, wLo’s taught you ballad- 
chanting, and everything as is decent you 
know ; to me, as has laid awake in my bed 
thinkin’ what I could do for you in the 
mornin’ ; to me, who’s always looked on 
you as a rasher of my own flesh I And 
you’ll shake them little mawleys at me !” 
The picture .of ingratitude was almost too 
much for Mr. Blast. He was nearly melted 
in his own tenderness. 

“None o’ th.it : that wmn’t do for me, no 
how^,” cried St. Giles. “ You made me 
steal the pony — you sold it, and now — ” 

The charge was too much for the indig- 
nant virtue of Mr. Blast. With an excla- 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


43 


mation of disgust, he aimed a blow at his 
accuser, that, but for his agility, would have 
laid him senseless on the floor. Bobbing 
his head and doubling himself up with won- 
derful elasticity, St. Giles escaped the medi- 
tated punishment, and the next moment saw 
him fastened on Tom : clasping him round 
the waist, and kicking with all his might 
and malice at his benefactor’s shins. Tom, 
mad with pain and vexation, sought to fling 
the urchin off : but he held to his prey like 
a stoat. For some moments the boy heroic- 
ally suffered the worst punishment that his 
master in iniquity could inflict, returning it 
with unequal powers. At length. Blast, un- 
clasping the urchin’s hold, seized him in his 
arms, and threw him violently off. The 
boy fell, stunned, against the wainscot. 
The infuriate savage — his passioh raging — 
was about to deal a blow — it would have 
been the last — upon the prostrate boy, when 
Capstick,' Bright Jem, and a couple of offi- 
cers burst into the room. Blast immediately 
divined their business, and with masterly 
coolness observed, pointing to St. Giles 
lying in the corner a senseless heap, — 
“ There’s your young oss-stealer for you ; 
and a nice job I’ve had to nibble him. A 
varmint of a pole-cat as he is.” 

“ The young un and the old un, too,” said 
one of the officers, “ Why, this is better 
luck than we bargained for.” 

Jem lifted up the bpyljetween his knees : 
he was still pale and senseless. “ Mr. Cap- 
stick,” said Jem, “ for God’s sake, some 
water !” Then turning an indignant look 
upon Blast, he added, “ Why, what a paving- 
stone you must have for a heart, to use a 
poor child like this.” 

“ A child !” cried Blast, “ a young devil !” 

“ And if he is,” said Jem, “who’s made 
him one 1 Murder ! why, it’s the worst of 
murders ; to take and kill all the good in a 
child’s soul, and then to fling him into the 
world to do his worst, and answer for’t.” 

“ There, there, never mind, Jem,” cried 
Capstick, who was turning himself round, 
and shuffling about, visibly affected by the 
miserable condition of the child, yet struggl- 
ingjo maintain his outward misanthropy. 
“.All wretches: all alike, worthless ani- 
mals!” And then he roared at the waiter 
as he entered, “ Why don’t you bring some 
water — some brandy — anything, everything 
for this poor creature — this miserable — help- 
less — forlorn — unhappy little boy And 
then Capstick turned his face in a corner, 
and violently blew his nose, and coughed, 
and vowed he never had such a cold in all 
his life, ' 

“ There, there,” said one of the officers, 
as Jem bathed the boy’s face, “ he’ll come 
round again, never fear.” 

Jem groaned, and shook his head. “ Yes, 
he will come round,” he said. “ If it wasn’t 


that blood would be on somebody’s head, it 
would be a good thing, if he didn’t. Lord ! 
Lord !” cried Jem, “ to think this is the 
babby’s face I once knew.” 

“ Pooh — pooh ! — nonsense,” said Cap- 
stick ; “ we’ve nothing to do with that ; no- 
thing at all. The ends of justice — the ends 
of justice, Mr. Aniseed” — and again the 
muffin-maker coughed ; he had such a cold. 

However, whilst Jem — with his heart 
running at his eyes — is solacing young St. 
Giles, we will, as briefly as we may, inform 
the,ieader of the cause that has brouglit the 
muffin-maker and the link-man to Smith- 
field. 

Ever since the conclusioa of our sixth 
chapter — which the urbanity of the reader 
will consider to be no less than six years 
ago — fortune smiled upon Capstick. True 
it is, she often smiles upon the strangest 
lumps of men — is oft a very Titania enamor- 
ed with an ass’s head — nevertheless, she 
showed good judgment in the favors she be- 
stowed upon the muffin-maker. So fortune 
made interest with her good sister fame to 
play a flourish on her trumpet in praise of 
Capstick’s muffins ; that in time rejoiced 
many hearths without the circle of St. 
Giles’s. In a word, Capstick soon built an 
enduring reputation upon muffins ; and there- 
fore had a better chance of his name going 
buttered down to posterity, than has the 
name of every monarch duly buttered in, 
birthday ode. Well, the calls upon Cap- 
stick’s oven were so increasing, that his 
wife suggested he should forthwith start a 
horse and very genteel cart. She, good 
woman- ! had no eye to a Sunday drive — the 
vanity never entered her head : all she 
thought of was business : she was a woman, 
and therefore had no wish to adulterate it 
with even a drop of pleasure. Mr. Capstick 
was somewhat twitted with himself that 
such proposal emanated from his wife : it 
was so good, so reasonable, it ought to have 
been his own. However, he would say, the 
woman had caught something like judgment 
by living with him. At once, then, Mr. 
Capstick consented to the vehicle ; and that 
purchased a bargain, he took his way — in 
pestilent hour for him — teSmithfield, to buy 
a horse. Now, Mr. Capstick knew no more 
of the points of a horse than of a unicorn. 
As, hoAvever, he had little faith in human 
nature, and none whatever when mixed up 
with horse-flesh, he. said to himself that he 
might as well be cheated at first hand as at 
second ; therefore, went he alone to buy a 
steed. Arrived in the market, full soon was 
he singled out by a benevolent, yet withal 
discerning dealer, who could see in a twink- 
ling the very sort of thing that would suit 
him. “A nice little cretur that would eat 
nothing, and go fifty miles a day upon it.” 
In brief, the wmrthy man sold it to the muf- 


THE HISTORY OF 


44 ' 


fin-maker, sold it to him for an old song — 
to be sure, he could afford to let it go thus 
cheap — the black pony which only a few 
days before had been the valued possession 
of Lord St. James. For four-and-twenty 
hours alone did the muffin-man rejoice in his 
purchase : for on his very first attempt to 
degrade the high-blooded animal to a cart — 
it was quite as fit to draw St. Paul’s — the 
creature, although its flowing tail and mane 
had been ruthlessly docked and cropped — 
was, identified by Cesar Gum, on his way, 
with a sisterly message, to Short’s Gardens. 
Never before had Mr, Capstick known tiie 
full value of a good character. His story of 
the transaction was received as trr.th ; and 
though he lost the ten pounds' — the value of 
the old song — he had given for the animal, 
he maintained his untarnished reputation. 
Of course, St. Giles was soon known as the 
horse-stealer. It also came out, that Mr. 
Thomas Blast had been seen in very earnest 
conversation with the boy, as he led the 
pony. Every search was made for Tom ; 
and as, with a modesty not usual to him, he 
.seemed wholly to have withdrawn himself 
from his native parish, curiosity to learn his 
whereabout was the more quickened. Mr. 
Capstick felt his judgment, his pocket, too, 
somewhat involved in the transaction. Pie 
felt that he stood fair and upright in the eye 
of the world, nevertheless it would be to him 
a peculiar satisfaction could he detect Mr. 
Thomas Blast, or the benevolent, simple- 
spoken tradesman who — for the price of an 
old song — had sold the pony. With this wish 
thumping at his heart, Capstick every day 
visited Smithfield and its neighborhood ; tak- 
ing with him Bright Jem, whom he had ac- 
customed himself to think an honest, worthy 
fellow, and his particular friend — that is, so 
far as the misanthropy of the muffin-maker 
would acknowledge the existence of such a 
treasure. It was strange, however, that 
Capstick — in his thoughts of revenge — had 
no thought of young St. Giles. No : all the 
vehemence of his wrath was roused against 
the boy’s tutor. 

We have now, we trust, sufficiently ex- 
plained the course of accidents that brought 
the muffin-maker and Jem to Porter-street, 
and so made them hearers of the unprofita- 
ble oratory of Tom Blast. Fearful that they 
might be recognised by him, they employed 
a third party to watch him to his haunt, 
whilst they secured the attendance of offi- 
cers. Hence, they saw not St. Giles, who 
— as we have before observed — kept him- 
self close among the mob. They were the 
more astonished to find the ill-used boy in 
the same room with his schoolmaster. 

“ There, now — he’s all right,” cried one 
of the officers, as St. Giles — restored by the 
efforts of Bright Jem — looked about him. 
However, no sooner was he conscious 


of the presence of Capstick and his fast 
friend Jem, than his face glowed like a coal. 
He hung down his head, and burst into 
tears ; there was no sham whimpering — no 
taught effort of sorrow — but the boy’s heart 
seemed touched, melted, and he wept and 
writhed convulsively. A recollection of ihe 
goodness — the disregarded kindness of the 
men before him — thrilled through his soul, 
and though he knew it not, he felt the. 
yearnings of a better nature. There was 
anguisli — penitence — in the sobs that seemed 
to tear his vitals. 

“ Thank God for that!” cried Jem ; and 
the poor fellow wept too. “I like to hear 
that, eh, Mr. Capstick 1” 

Mr. Capstick felt an odd queasiness in his 
throat, and could say nothing. He there- 
fore again threw himself upon his pocket- 
handkerchief. Then, conscious that he had 
a great duty to perform for the ends of jus- 
tice — a fact, that when otherwise puzzled 
he had more than once insisted upon — he 
turned to the officers, and pointing his thumb 
towards Blast, observed with peculiar lofti- 
ness, “ You will be good enough to hand- 
cuff' that man.” 

“ Handcuff me !” cried Mr. Blast. — 

“ They’ll do it at their peril.” 

“ Ha ! my good man — I beg your pardon 
— you desperate scoundrel !” said Capstick 
with withering urbanity ; “ they’re accus- 
tomed to do a great deal at their peril : 
thanks to such rascals as you. Handcuff 
him.” 

“ They darn’t do it — they darn’t do it,” 
shouted the struggling Blast : and in a mo- 
ment afterwards his wrists were locked in 
iron. “ I’ll make you pay for this — never 
mind ; it’s no matter to me — but I’ll make 
you pay for this,” he said ; and then, like a v 
Tyburn philosopher, Tom became suddenly 
reconciled to his manacles. 

We will not dwell upon the details of the 
examination of the prisoners. It will be 
sufficient for the reader to know that, after 
certain preliminaries, a sitting alderman 
committed St. Giles and his tutor for horse- 
stealing. Both scholar and master awaited ^ 
their trial in Newgate. 

It was not until after the culprit’s first 
examination, that Capstick felt the full 
annoyance of his position. When Jem 
would shake his head, and look dumpish on 
the matter, Capstick would talk loud, and 
beg him to think of the ends of justice : but 
when the boy was committed on the capital 
charge the muffin-maker’s public spirit for- 
sook him. Evidence had brought the accu- 
sation quite home to tlie boy ; however legal 
proot might tail to criminate his tempter. 

‘‘ They’-ll never — never think of much hurt- 
ing the boy — a child, you know — a mere 
child,” said Capstick to 'Jem, as they left 
Guildhall togetheh 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


45 


“ Humph ! I don’t know what you call ' 
hurting, Mr. Ch.pstick,” said Jem, moodily. 

“ But I shouldn’t think hanging pleasant.” 

Capstick turned pale as flour, and he 
could scarcely articulate the words — “ Im- 
possible — ridiculous — they couldn’t do it.” 

“ Ha !” cried Jem, “ when hanging’s the 
thing, you don’t know what they can do. 
Well, I’d rather ha’ been in bed, with a bro- 
ken limb, than had a finger in this matter. 

I shall have that poor child always about me : 

I know I shall. - V/hen he’s killed and gone, 

I shall never take my pipe without seeing 
his face in the fire. And then my poor old 
woman ! She that still ’s so fond of him — 
poor orphan thing ! for his mother’s worse 
than lost to him — she’ll lead me a nice life 
— that is, though she won’t say anything 
outright, she’ll always be a crying about 
him. We’ve done a nice thing, Mr. Cap- 
stick, to make our lives pleasant as long as 
they last !” 

“ Pooh, pooh — folly, Jem ; all folly. I 
'Suppose property must be protected. I 
suppose you won’t deny that, eh 1” asked 
Capstick. 

“ I deny nothing,” answered Jem hope- 
lessly ; and then he groaned “ God help us ! 
Why didn’t he die in the frost and snow 1 
Why did I warm him, when a babby, at my 
own fire only to help hang him arterwards I” 

“ Hang him ! Nonsense ! I tell you, 
Jem, you’re a fool — an old, butter-hearted 
fool — and you know nothing: here have you 
lived all your life with the worst people about 
you — not but what folks at the very best are 
great rascals, every one of ’em — but here 
have you been up to your ears in villany — 
and yet you look upon everybody about you 
as innocent as shepherds and shepherdesses 
in white china. I’m ashamed of you, Jem ; 
be a man, and think of the world as its ras- 
calit}'^ deserves. For Lord! what a lump 
of roguery it is! How that the blessed sun 
should ever condescend to smile upon such 
a lot of wretches as we are, I can’t tell.” 

“ No more can I,” answered Jem : “ but 
since the sun, as you say, does condescend 
to show a good face to us, I think it’s as lit- 
tle as we can do to try to do the same to one 
another.” 

Capstick, taken somewhat aback, looked 
suddenly, round upon Jem; and then, feel- 
ing himself wholly unable to controvert this 
opinion, he simply said, “Jem, you’re a fool.” 

A week passed on, and the trial of St. 
Giles approached. It was strange to Mr. 
Capstick that so many of his customers, 
would ask him about his health. “ Why, 
what can ail the people I” he would say. 

I was never better — never in all my life. 
I eat like a pig and sleep like a dormouse : 
can any man do better than that I” But 
lilr. Capstick was not well. The biped pig 
made poor meals ; the human dormouse had 


restless nights : and when dreaming, dreamt 
horrid visions of death and Newgate. 

It wanted some ten days of the trial, when 
Bright Jem presented himself at Capstick’s 
house. “You see,” saidjlem, “they’re 
getting some money in the Lane so that 
they may have a lawyer for poor St. Giles. 
Well, they’re a bad lot, I daresay : but you 
should only know what some of the poor 
souls have done.” 

“ And what have they done I” asked 
Capstick, with what he meant for a sneer. 

“ Why, some as had two blankets have 
sold one on ’em; some with two gowns 
have pawned one o’ them. It would make 
you bless yourself, Mr. Capstick, to see be- 
sides what things they’ve made twmpences 
and threepences of — kettles, sarcepans, any- 
thing. It’s wonderful to see how they do 
stick by one another.” 

“ Crime, Mr. Aniseed, crime is a brazen 
cord— and certainly does hold rogues to- 
gether,” said Capstick. 

“You may say what you like,” said Jem, 
“ but whenever I’ve looked up that horrid 
Lane, and seen men and women like devils, 
and children — poor creturs, — like devil’s 
little ones, — I never could have thought that 
in that dismal place there was after all a 
sort of good, that the very best of us 
wouldn’t be any worse for more of it.” 

“Very like; very like ;” said Capstick. 
“ And I am to understand, that the people 
want to fee a lawyer!” 

“ That’s it,” replied Jem. “ There’s a 
Mr. Tangle, somew'here in Clifford’s Inn; 
he’s a sharp un: they say he’d get a chap out 
o’ Newgate ; get him out through a flaw no 
bigger than a key-hole. Well, I’ve been 
thinking — not that I can do much — but I’ve 
been thinking as wm helped to get the boy 
into Newgate, if we was to give what money 
we could to help him out.” 

“ And so defeat the ends of justice !” 
cried Capstick, and he frowned severely. 

“Oh, I daresay it’s wrong,” said Jem; 
“ nevertheless, if we could only get the boy 
safe off, he might be a good un after all. 
Didn’t you hear how" he cried ! Oh, there’s 
heart in him yet. I’m sure there is. Well 
then, you see — ” 

“ I see perfectly,” said Capstick, “ you’ve 
come to ask me to subscribe to the fund for 
the lawyer ?” 

“ Well, that’s just it,” assented Jem. 

“ Forgetful of my serious responsibility 
as a witness — forgetful of the ends of jus- 
tice — forgetful of what I owe to society — 
forgetful — ” 

“ Forgetful,” cried Jem with animation, 
“ of everything except of saving a child 
from the gallows.” 

“ Mr. Aniseed,” said Capstick very de- 
cidedly, “ I am sorry to refuse you any- 
thing, but you must not let your feelings blind 


46 


THE HISTORY OF 


you : you mean well, but you have yet to 
leani that the best meaning men are those 
who so often do the most mischief. In a 
word, sir, I can have nothing to say to this 
business.” 

Bright Jem made no answer, but with a 
moody nod, was about to leave the shop, 
when the muffin-maker called to him. “ I 
think you said this attorney’s name was 
Wrangle I” 

“ Tangle,” said Jem shortly. 

“ Tangle, Lyon’s Inn,” said Capstick. 

Clifford’s-Inn,” cried Jem, a little sulki- 
ly, and then he darted from the shop. 

It is most true that Mr. Tangle deserved 
the high reputation bestowed upon him by 
Jem. His office in Clifford’s-Inn was look- 
ed upon as a private way out from Newgate. 
Many and many a time, when the fatal halter 
seemed inevitable, has he, by some deft de- 
vice, turned the running into a slip-knot, and 
the hangman lias been defrauded by the 
quibbler. Many a gentleman had Mr. Tan- 
gle restored to the road, none at all the 
worse for Newgate. Many a highwayman, 
on his solitary midnight watch, might think 
with gratitude of the master-spirit of Clif- 
ford’s Inn. 

It was the evening of the day on which’ 
Bright Jem solicited Capstick, and Mr. 
Tangle sat in the solitude of his chambers. 
He was sunk in profound study ; possibly, 
pondering how to find or make a flaw ; how 
to give to the line of right a zig-zag, profit- 
able bend, for some consulting client shut 
in Newgate stones. His clerk was out : 
therefore, his knocker being struck, he rose 
himself and opened the door. A tall, bulky 
man, w’rapped in a great-coat, a hat slouched 
•over his face, tied by a handkerchief that 
almost wholly covered his features, stalked 
into the room. Mr. Tangle was not all sur- 
prised : not all. So many odd people — so 
strangely appointed — every sessions called 
•upon him. • , 

“ You are Mr. Tangle,” said a voice that 
most assuredly belonged to Capstick, the 
muffin-maker. Mr. Tangle bowed. “You 
are interested in the case of a boy, one St. 
Giles 1” 

“ I have been consulted,” said Tangle in 
his dry way. “ A bad case ; confessedly, a 
bad case ; still, something may be done. 
You know till a man’s hanged there’s al- 
ways hope ; that is, if there’s always ” 

“ Money.” Mr. Tangle smiled and nodded. 
Mr. Capstick took a small leathern bag 
from his pocket, from which he counted . out 
ten guineas. “ I am uot a rich man, Mr. 
Tangle,” said Capstick. 

“I am . sorry for it,” said Tangle (and 
with a feeling of sincerity ;) otherwise the 
ten might have been fifty. 

“ But do what you can for that wretched 


boy — only save him from hanging, and 
there’s twenty more.” 

“ Thirty pounds,” said Tangle ; “ it’s 
doing it — if indeed it’s to be done at all — 
very cheap ; too cheap. Nevertheless, as 
you’re not a rich man, I’ll not refuse money. 
What name I” 

“Never mind that,” said Capstick. “I 
think I’ve given you enough to show that 
I’m in earnest. Now, only save the child, 
and as God’s in heaven you shall have the 
other twenty.” 

“ We’ll see what can be done,” said Tan- 
gle, showing Capstick to the door — “ I have 
hopes ; great hopes.” 

And the trial came on, and St. Giles and 
Thomas Blast were arraigned for stealing a 
pony of the value of fifty pounds, the prop- 
erty of the Marquess of St. James. Noth- 
could be clearer than the evidence against 
the boy, as delivered by young St. James, 
Mrs. Simmer, and her servant. But legal 
proof was wanting against Blast. True, he 
had been talking to St. Giles, as the boy led 
the pony ; but nothing more. There was 
no doubt that the man who had taken the 
animal from St. Giles in Long Lane was 
an accomplice of Blast’s, but he was not to 
be found — there was no proof. Whereupon, 
Thomas Blast was acquitted ; and young 
St. Giles found “ Guilty, — Death.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ Guilty — Death !” 

What familiar syllables were these in the 
good old times — the time of our history I In 
those happier days, how many goods and 
chattels, live stock and dead, were protected, 
watched by Death ! Death was made by 
law the guardian of all things. Prime agent, 
great conservator of social security — grim 
keeper of the world’s moveables. Death, a 
shepherd, avenged the wrongs of stolen 
mutton ; Death stood behind every counter, 
protector of chapman’s stock ; Death was 
the day and night guard of the highway 
traveller against the highway thief : Death 
watched ox and ass ; the goose on the com- 
mon, the hen on the roost. Even at the 
altar. Death took his cautious stand, that 
Hymen might not be scoffed, defrauded by 
wicked bigamist, De minimis curahat Mors. 
Turn where he would, the rogues’ path 
was dug with graves. Nevertheless, the 
world grew no better ; made no visible re- 
turn to that happy state, ere hemp was 
made a sovereign remedy for wrong. And 
so by degress Death lost somewhat of hi* 
reputation with the members of the world ; 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


47 


and by degrees many things were taken out 
of his charge. It was found that — sheep 
were stolen — tradesmen’s goods lifted — 
pockets picked — hen roosts forced — and 
maids wickedly married by men already 
bound — it was seen that these abominations 
continued and increased, aye in the very 
face of the great ghastly bugbear Death, and 
so his watch and ward were made a lighter 
task ; he was gradually relieved of many of 
his social duties ; the world, to the astonish- 
ment of some folks, still spinning on its axis, 
though the life of immortal man w'as not, as 
in the good old times, offered to stolen colt, 
to the king’s gracious ,face unlawfully 
stamped in counterfeit metal, to a hundred 
other sins all made mortal by the wisdom of 
untaught humanity. Truly, justice, turning 
back the leaves of the jail calendar, might 
sit awhile in sackcloth and ashes, penitent 
for past trangressions — past wrongs com- 
mitted in her moral blindness ! The sword 
of justice ! An awful w^eapon truly : a 
w'eapon, working out the will of highest 
Providence : a solemn instrument which 
man solemnly acknowledges. This has 
been, and may be. Yet, thinking of the 
world’s mistakes ; of the cruel blunders 
worked by law on man, the sword of justice 
— of so-called Christian justice robed and 
ermined — may sometimes seem to the eye 
of grieved humanity as terrible as the blood- 
dripping tomahawk of the wild revengeful 
savage. The sword of justice! May not 
the time come — it will come surely as the 
sun of far-off years — when justice shall lay 
down her sword 1 when, with better wis- 
dom, she shall vindicate her awful mission 
to mankind, yet shed no drop of blood 1 
Let us return to St. Giles ; to the boy 
in his fifteenth year, spawned upon the 
world and reared by daily wrong and igno- 
rance, a morsel for the hangman. Now, a 
condemned thief, palsied and aghast with 
terror, upon the very threshold of the world ; 
to be flung therefrom, an offering to the 
majesty of offended law. Grim majesty — 
ghastly Moloch ! Stately wickedness, with 
robes dyed in the blood of sinning igno- 
rance 1^ A majesty, that the principle of 
all evil may too often smile upon as its 
working genius here on earth. A majesty 
as cold and pulseless as the idol whose 
wooden nostrils know not the sacrifices its 
dfA"kened worshippers prepare it. But St. 
Giles will now know there is a government, 
a knot of the wise and good, whose harmo- 
nious souls combined make up the music of 
the state: the moral melody that softens 
and refines the rugged, dull-eared mass. 
He will know this ; the hangman will 
teach it him. A sharp, short lesson ; 
the first and last prepared him by a pa- 
ternal State. 


1 “ Guilty — death !” Such was the ver- 

j diet. Tom Blast breathed heavily, and a 
faint smile flickered at his lips as he felt 
assured of his escape. Still he durst not 
turn his eye towards his boy-victim in the ' 
dock. Conscience was at the felon’s heart ; 
and seared, withered as it was, it felt the 
sudden horror of remorse. His features 
grew pale, then dark : were for a moment 
convulsed ; then instantly — daring no look 
at St. Giles — he disappeared from the dock. 
The boy stared about him with a foolish 
gaze ; and then began to sob. There was 
no terror — no anguish in his face. It was 
the grief of a boy doomed to a whipping, not 
the gibbet ; and it was such sorrow — such 
seeming childish ignorance of the impending 
horror — that to those who looked upon him 
made his condition mjpre terrible. And 
then again it seemed impossible that the 
sentence, sonorously uttered, should be car- 
ried out. Could it be that such an array of 
judges — such wisdom, such learning, such 
grave and reverend experience — should be 
opposed to a miserable child, of no more 
self-accountability than a dog 1 Appalling 
odds ! Could it be thought that the scene 
was a frightful reality of daily, breathing 
life 1 Was it not a grim farce — a hideous, 
foolish mockery 1 Could the wise hearts of 
men — fathers of well-taught, well-tended, 
happy children — doom that child to death I 
That miserable item of human ignoranc% — 
that awful reproach to those who made 
laws to protect property, but left the outcast 
poor a heedless prey to their own unbridled 
instincts'? Nevertheless, the law would 
hang St. Giles ; and grave, respectable, 
church-going men, in the very cosiness of 
their ignorance, would clasp their hands, and 
raise their eyes, and pity and wonder at the 
wickedness of the new generation 1 

A turnkey in the dock took St. Giles by 
the hand, and in a moment the boy had dis- 
appeared. “Good God!” cried a voice, 
convulsed with grief. “ Silence in the 
court !” exclaimed the crier ; and immedi- 
ately another wretch took his place at the 
bar, and the terrible course of law continued. 

It was Capstick, whose exclamation had 
called down the official rebuke ; it was 
really Capstick, although even the wife of 
his bosom might have paused, ere she ac- 
knowledged him ; so suddenly and fright- 
fully had the brief business of the trial 
wrought a change in him. His flesh seemed 
jaundiced, and his black eyes, violently dila- 
ted, rolled restlessly about. His face ap- 
peared of a sudden sharpened like the face 
of a sick man ; and his arm shook, palsied, 
as with his nails he grasped the arm of 
Bright Jem. “ Let us go,” said Jem, chok- 
ingly, — “ we can do no good here and 
Capstick,' staring stupidly about him, suffer- 
ed himself to be led from the court. In a 


I 


48 


THE HISTORY OF 


few moments they stood in the Old Bailey. 
It was a lovely spring night. The breath 
of May, even in the Old Bailey, came sweet 
and odorous — carrying freshness to tlie heart 
and brain. The moon shone with brightest, 
purest lustre ; all the stars of heaven seem- 
ed visible ; all looking down in their bright 
tenderness, as though they looked upon a 
kindred sphere of purity and light, and 
loved it. Capstick gazed at the magnifi- 
cence, and tears thick and fast fell from him. 
Then in a subdued, a comforting voice, he 
said — “ No, Jem, no ; it's a wickedness to 
think of it ; there’s a God in heaven, and 
they can’t do it.” 

“ Hadn’t we better see Tangle, the law- 
yer I” asked Jem. “ He hasn’t done much, 
to be sure ; still he may yet do something. 

I didn’t see him nowhere in the court — saw 
nobody but his clerk.” ^ 

“ Yes, we’ll see him — we’ll see him,” 
said Capstick. He’s a scoundrel ; but 
then he’s fitter for the world. For the 
truth is, Jem, we’re all scoundrels.” Jem 
made no answer to this charitable creed. 

“ All scoundrels ; and I’m about the poorest, 
meanest, shabbiest villain of the lot. And 
yet you’ll see how I shall carry it off. 
They’ll hang this wretched boy — oh, never 
doubt it, Jem ! they’re bad enough for any- 
thing — they’ll hang him. And I shall still 
go on sleek and smooth in the world ; making 
muffins and laying by pennies : paying rent 
and taxes 1 owing no man a shilling, and so 
easily and pleasantly earning a good name, 
and being mightily trumped up for doing it. 

I shall go on being called a respectable 
man ; and I shall grin and smile at the lie, 
and show a satin cheek to the world, as if 
the lie was true as gospel truth. And then 
I shall die and be buried with feathers ; and 
Mrs. Capstick will put a stone over me — I 
know her pride, Jem ; I know she’ll do it — 
a stone with a bouncing flam upon it ; all 
lies to the last. Oh, Jem,” cried Capstick, 
groaningly, “ if the devil ever takes church- 
yard walks, how he must chuckle and rub 
his brimstone hands, when he reads some 
of the tombstones ! Eh 1 How he must 
hold his sides at the ‘ loving husbands,’ 

‘ affectionate fathers,’ ‘ faithful friends,’ and 
‘ pious Christians,’ that he sees advertised 
tnere ! For he knows better, Jem; eh 1 
He knows better,” cried the muffin-maker 
with increasing bitterness. 

“Well,” said Jem, “ I cant’t say; who 
can 1 But I should hope the devil knew 
nothing at all about the matter. But how- 
somever, be that as it may, he has nothing 
to do with the business that’s brought us out 
to-night.” 

“ I wish he hadn’t, Jem, I wish he hadn’t,” 
cried Capstick, with stifled emotion. “ But, 
here, walking as we are, down this blessed 
Fleet-street — oh lord ! doesn’t it seem strange 


after what we’ve just left, to see the sight 
about us ? — w'alking here, do you think the 
devil isn’t pointing his finger at me, and say- 
ing with a grin to one of his imps — ‘ There 
goes the respectable muffin-maker that’s sold 
a boy’s blood for ten pounds ?’ ” 

“ How can you talk in that way ?” said 
Jem, “the devil’s the father of lies, and only 
keeps up his character if he says it.” 

“ Not a bit ; it’s the devil that speaks truth 
of our lies ; that turns us inside out, and 
shames sanctified faces with the black hearts 
that have been under ’em. I say I have sold 
the boy — put the rope about his neck. And 
for what ? for ten pounds. What a fine 
fellow 1 thought myself when I stirred in the 
matter! What a lump of virtue — what a 
wonderful bit of public spirit I thought I was, 
when, day after day, I neglected my muffins 
and the partner of my hearthstone, to go 
thief-catching. And I believed I was doing 
a fine thing — and so, you know I did, I crow- 
ed and cackled about the ends of justice. 
All a sham — all a brave, flashy cloak to hide 
a rascal dirtinels. It was the thoughts of 
the ten guineas, Jem, the ten guineas, that 
called all the poison out of my heart, and has 
made me hang a wretched, untaught beggar- 
boy. Yes, I’m a pretty respectable scoun- 
drel — a fine public-spirited miscreant, 
am.” 

Bright Jem, used to the muffin-maker’s 
humor, made no farther answer to this self- 
reproach ; but again urged the necessity of 
consulting Tangle. “ It can’t be done to- 
night — but we’ll at him the first thing to- 
morrow,” said Capstick. 

“ To-morrow’s Sunday,” said Jem. 

“ What of that ?” asked Capstick. “ Peo- 
ple come into the world on Sundays, so it 
can’t be unlawful to help to save ’em from 
going — look there, Jem,” and Capstick point- 
ed to a carriage rolling rapidly past. 

“ That’s the Marquess’s — come from the 
trial. There’s young St. James in it; well, 
he’s going to better comfort than a stone 
cell. Howsomever, he’s a fine fellow — a 
kind, good heart is in that little chap, 1’ a 
sure of it. How nicely he give his evidence, 
didn’t he ? And how kindly he seemed to 
look at St. Giles in the dock ; as much as to 
say, ‘ Poor fellow, I wish I could get you out 
o’ that!’ He’ll make a true man, that boy 
will,” said Jem ; and then he mournfully 
added, “ and so would poor St. Giles. Ha ! 
if, when Susan brought him home out o’ the 
snow, if he and young St. James had been 
made to change berths, eh ? There’d have 
been a different account of both of ’em, I 
should think. And yet you see how the 
poor’s treated ; just as if they came into the 
world with wickedness upon ’em ; a kind of 
human natur vermin — things born to do all 
sorts of mischief, and then to be hung up for 
doing it.” 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


49 


*‘We’il go to Tangle to-morrow — early 
to-morrow,” said Capstick ; who, buried in 
his compunctious grief, had given no ear to 
the reflections of Jem. “ Good night ; early 
to-morrow,” And the muffin-maker sudden- 
ly broke from his companion, and strided 
hcferie — a miserable home to him, wliose 
acute sensibility reproached him as unworthy 
of the household comforts about him. He 
looked upon the part he had taken with in- 
tense remorse, ^^he would-be misanthrope 
loathed himself for what he deemed his sel- 
fishness of heart — his c-ruelty towards wretch- 
edness and ignorance. Within a few steps 
of his door, he paused to call up — with all 
the power he had — a look of serenity, of 
decent composure. Somehow, he felt uneasy 
at the thoughts of meeting his wife. At 
length he prepared himself, and, with a toler- 
ably successful face of tranquillity, crossed 
his threshold. He exchanged but one look 
with his wife ; it was enough : it was plain 
she knew the fate of St. Giles. How should 
it be otherwise ? A score of neighbors, cus- 
tomers, had thronged the shop with the 
mortal intelligence ; and some ventured to 
hope that Mr. Capstick wouldn’t sleep the 
worse for his day’s work — others begged to 
ask if the muffin-maker thought the hanging 
of a poor child would bring a blessing on 
him — and some hinted an opinion that those 
who were so sharp after evil-doers had com- 
monly not the cleanest consciences them- 
selves. These interrogations and innuendos 
had to be severally answered and warded by 
the muffin-maker’s wife, who, to give her 
due credit, was not slow at any kind of reply, 
and was truly a very respectable mistress 
“ of fence.” Nevertheless, the exercise 
would heat a temper never prone to coldness, 
and in the present instance raised to boiling 
heat, by what she deemed the malice of her 
neighbors. And yet, it would have made 
Capstick’s conjugal heart glad again, had he 
heard how eloquently, how magnificently his 
acts were defended by his wife : for Mrs. 
Capstick most volubly and vehemently begg- 
ed to assure her neighbors, “ that there was 
not a man in the parish fit to wipe her hus- 
band’s shoes” — “ that he was only wrong in 
being too honest” — “ that a better soul, or 
Kinder- hearted creature, never walked” — and 
that, in short, in the depth of her charity, 
she “only wished that those who spoke a 
word against him had half such a husband ; 
the neighborhood would be all the quieter for 
it, that’s what she knew, if they had.” All 
this did honor to Mr. Capstick, and would 
doubtless have solaced the wounded bosom 
of her lord, could he only have known it ; 
but Mrs. Capstick had too much humility to 
vaunt her own virtues, therefore she breathed 
no word of the matter to her well-defended 
husband. Not that, the shop being closed, 
and the wedded couple seated at the fireside, 
'4 


Mrs. Capstick was silent ; certainly not ; 
for, whilst the muffin-maker tried to solace 
himself with a pipe, his wife thus declared 
herself: — 

“ Well, Mr. Capstick, now I hope you’re 
satisfied ! I hope you’ve made a nice day’s 
work of it ! A pretty name you’ve got in 
the* parish ! There’ll be no living here — /’ll 
not live here, I can tell you. All the world 
will point at you, and say, ‘ There goes the 
man tliat hanged that wretched little child !’ ” 

Capstick suddenly took the pipe from his 
mouth, and stared at his wife. It was 
strange : he had himself said something of 
the kind to Bright Jem. He then renewed 
his smoking, speaking no syllable in answer 
to his spouse ; and yet eloquently replying 
to her philippics by pooh-pooh-poohing the 
smoke from him, now in short, hasty, irasci- 
ble puffs, and now in a heavy volume of 
vapor. There was a majesty in liis manner 
that seemed to quietly defy the assaults >.'1 
his better moiety. There seemed, too, to be 
no getting at him for the clouds in which he 
industriously involved himself. 

“And I should like to know what your 
satisfaction will be for what you’ve done ! 
Why, you’ll never have another happy mo- 
Hient ; you can’t have ! That poor child will 
always be before your eyes. And then what 
a beautiful business you’ll lose ; for nobody 
will deal with you. Ha ! nice airs the 
Gibbses will give themselves, now.” (The 
Gibbses, be it known, were new-come muffin- 
makers, struggling in hopeless rivalry with 
the muffins of Capstick.) “ Everybody will 
go to them ; I’m sure I don’t think ’twill be 
any use our opening the shop on Monday, 
And all about ten guineas ! Ha, they’ll be 
a dear ten guineas to you — better have lost 
’em ten times over. And so young a child 
— only fourteen! To hang him! Don’t 
you think, Mr. Capstick, his ghost will follow 
you ?” 

Capstick made no answer; but his eye, 
turned ominously upon his wife, began to 
glow like a coal, and he puffed at the smoke 
like a man laboring with himself. Beautiful 
philosophy ! Full soon the muffin-maker’s 
eye shone with its old tranquil light, and 
again he smoked calmly— desperately calmly. 
Still Mrs. Capstick continued the punishment 
of her tongue ; but Capstick had conquered 
himself, and still replied not. At length, in 
the very heat and fullest pitch of her com- 
plaint, Capstick rose, and softly laying down 
his pipe, said— “ Mary Anne, I’m going to 
bed.” Poor Capstick ! He came home with 
his heart bleeding ; and a little tenderness, a 
little conjugal sympathy, would have been a 
value to him ; but — as people say of greater 
matters — it was not to be. 

Capstick rose early ; and, speedily joined 
by Bright Jem, both took their way to Mr. 
Tangle’s private mansion, Red Lion Square. 


50 


THE HISTORY OF 


It was scarcely nine o’clock, when the muf- 
fin-maker knocked at the lawyer’s door. It 
v/as quite impossible that Mr. Tangle should 
be seen. “ But the business,” cried Capslick 
to the man-servant — a hybrid between a 
groom and a footman — “ the business is upon 
life and death.” 

“ Bless you,” said the man, “ that makes 
no difference whatever. We deal so much 
in life and death, that we think nothing of it. 
It’s like plums to a grocer, you know. Mr. 
Tangle never can be seen of a Sunday be- 
fore half-past ten ; a quarter to eleven he 
goes, of course, to church. The Sabbath, 
he always says, should be a day of rest.” 
And Tangle — it was his only self-indulgence 
— illustrated this principle by lying late in 
bed every Sunday morning to read his papers. 
Nevertheless, with smoothly shaven face, and 
with an all-unworldly look, he was, ere the 
church-bell ceased, enshrined in the family 
pew. There was he with his wife, decor- 
ously garnished with. half-a-dozen children, 
sons and daughters, patterns of Sabbath 
piety ; of seventh-day Christianity. “ After 
six days’ hard work, what a comfort it was,” 
he would say,. “ to enjoy church of a Sun- 
day!” And Tangle, after his fashion, did 
enjoy it : he enjoyed the respectability whic^ 
church-going threw about him ; he enjoyed 
his worldly ease and superiority, as mani- 
fested in his own cosily furnished pew. 
Looking upon the pauper worshippers on the 
benches, and then contemplating the com- 
forts of his own nook, he felt very prcmd of 
his Christianity. And in this way did Mr. 
Tangle attend church. It was a decent 
form due to society, and especially to him-' 
self. He went to church as he went to his 
office, — as a matter of business ; though he 
would have been mightily shocked had such 
a motive been attributed to him. 

•“ I’ll come at half-past ten,” said Cap- 
stick, “ for I must see him.” The servant 
looked stolidly at the muffin-maker, and, 
without a word, closed the door. “ He can 
then tell us,” said Capstick to Jem, “ when he 
can see us in the afternoon. And now Jem, 
we can only stroll about till the time comes.” 
And so they walked on silently ; for both 
felt oppressed with the belief that their er- 
rand to the lawyer would be fruitless ; yet 
both were determined to try every means, 
however hopeless. They walked, and saun- 
tered, and the church-bells rang out, sum- 
moning Christian congregations to common 
worship. “ There’s something beautiful in 
the church-bells, don’t you think so, Jem I” 
asked Capstick, in a subdued tone. “ Beau- 
tiful and hopeful ! — they talk to high and 
low, rich and poor in the same voice ; there’s 
a sound in ’em that should scare pride, and 
envy, and meanness of all sorts from the 
heart of map : that should make him look 
upon the world with kind, forgiving eyes ; 


that should make the earth itself seem to 
him, at least for a time, a holy place. Yes, 
Jem: there’s a whole sermon in the very 
sound of the church bells, if we have only 
the ears to rightly understand it. There’s a 
preacher in every belfry, Jem, that cries, 
‘ Poor, weary, struggling, fighting creatures 
— poor human things ! take rest, be quiet. 
Forget your vanities, your follies ; your 
week-day craft, your heart-burnings ! And 
you, ye human vessels, gilttind painted ; be- 
lieve the iron tongue that tells ye, that for 
all your gilding, all your colors, ye are of 
the same Adam’s earth with the beggar at 
your gates. Come away, come, cries the 
church-bell, and learn to be humble ; learn- 
ing that, however, daubed and stained, and 
stuck about with jewels, you are but grave 
clay ! Come, Dives, come ; and be taught 
that all your glory, as you wear it, is not 
half so beautiful in the eye of heaven, as 
the sores of uncomplaining Lazrarus! And 
ye poor creatures, livid and faint — stinted 
and crushed by the pride and hardness of the 
world, — come, come, cries the bell, with the 
voice of the angel, — come and learn what is 
laid up for ye. And learning, take heart 
and walk among the wickedness, the cruel- 
ties of the world, calmly as Daniel walked 
among the lions.’ ” Here Capstick, flush- 
ed and excited, wrought beyond himself, 
suddenly paused. Jem stared, astonished, 
but said no word. And then, Capstick, with 
calmer manner, said — “ Jem, is there a finer 
sight than a stream of human creatures pass- 
ing from a Christain church 1” 

“ Why,” said Jem, “ that’s as a man, may 
consider with himself. It may be, as you 
say, a very fine sight — and it may be, what 
I call a very sad and melancholy show, in- 
deed.” 

“ Sad and melancholy !” cried Capstick ; 
“you’ll have a hard task to prove that.” 

“ Perhaps so, — only let me do it after my 
own fashion.” Capstick nodded assent. — 
“ Bless you ! I’ve thought of it many a time 
when I’v^ seen a church emptying itself in- 
to the street. Look here, now. I’ll sup- 
pose there’s a crowd of .people — a whole 
mob of ’em going down the church steps. 
And at the church-door, there is I don’t 
know how many roods of Christian carriages 
— with griffins painted on the panels, and 
swords, and daggers, and battle-axes, that 
as well as I can remember, Jesus doesn’t 
recommend nowhere : and there’s the coach- 
men, half-asleep and trying to look religious 
— and there’s footmen following some and 
carrying the Holy Bible after their misusses, 
just as to-morrow they’ll carry a spanel, — 
and that’s what they call their humility. Well, 
that’s a pleasant sight, isn’t it 1 And then 
for them wIkj re not asfiamed to carry their 
own big prayer books, with the gold leaves 
twinkling in the sun, as if they took pains to 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


51 


tell the world they’d been to church, — well, I 
how many of them have been there in earn- 
est 1 How many of them go there with no 
thought whatsoever, only that it’s Sunday — 
church-going day 1 And so they put on 
what they think religion that day, just as I 
ut on a clean shirt. Bless you ! sometimes 
’ve stood and watched the crowd, and I’ve 
said to myself. — ‘ Well I should like to know 
how many of you will remember you’re 
Christians till next week 1 How many of 
you will go lo-morrrow morning to your of- 
fices, and counting-houses, and stand behind 
your counters, and, all in the way of busi- 
ness, — all to scramble up the coin — forget 
you’re miserable sinners, while every other 
thing you do may make you more miserable, 
only you never feel it, so long as it makes you 
more rich ? And so there’s a Sunday con- 
science like a Sunday coat ; and folks, who’d 
get on in the world, put the coat and the 
conscience carefully by, and only wear ’em 
once a week. Well, to think how many 
such folks go to worship, — I must say it. 
Master Oapstick, to stand inside a church 
and watch a congregation coming out, I 
can’t help thinking it, however you may 
stare, may be, thinking after my fashion, a 
melancholy sight indeed. Lord love you, 
when we see what some people do all the 
week, — people who’re staunch at church, re- 
member — I can’t help thinking, there’s a 
good many poor souls who’re only Christians 
at morning and arternoon service.” 

Capstick looked earnestly at Jem and 
said, “ My dear fellow, it’s all very well be- 
tween you and me to say this ; but don’t say 
it to the world ; don’t Jem, if you wouldn’t 
be hunted, harried, stoned to death, like a 
mad dog. Folks won’t be turned inside out 
after this fashion, without revenging the 
treatment with all sorts of bad names : Very 
pure folks won’t be held up to the light and 
shown to be very dirty bottles, without pay- 
ing back hard abuse for the impertinence. 
Jem, whatever coat a man may wear, never 
see a hole in it. Though it may be full of 
holes as a net, never see ’em ; but take your 
hat off too the coat, as if it was the best bit 
of broadcloth in the world, without a flaw 
or a thread dropt, and with the finest bits of 
gold lace upon it. In this world, Jem, woe 
to the man with an eye for holes ! He’s a 
beast, a wretch, an evil-speaker, an unchar- 
itable thinker, a pest to be put dovyn. And 
Jem, when the respectable hypocrites make 
common cause with one another, the Lord 
help the poor devil they give chase to !” 

“ I always speak my mind,” said Jem. 

“ It’s an extravagance that has ruined 
many a man,” said the muffin-maker. “But 
enough of this, Jem ; it’s just the time to 
catch Tangle before he goes out.” A few 
moments brought them to the lawyer’s door. 
Ere, however, the muffin-maker could touch 


the knocker, the door opened, and Mr. Tangle, 
his wife, his two sons and two daughters pre- 
sented themselves, all, the females especial- 
ly, being dressed for church. Yes ; dress- 
ed for church ; carefully, elaborately array- 
ed and ornamented, to sustain the severest 
criticism that, during the hours of devotion, 
might be passed upon them by sister sin 
ners. 

“ Mr. Tangle,” said Capstick, “ I won’t 
keep you a minute : but when can I call 
on — ” 

“ Nothing secular to-day, sir,” said Tan- 
gle, and he waved both his hands. 

“ But, Mr. Tangle, there’s life and death, 
sir” — cried Capstick, but Tangle interrupted 
him : 

“ What’s life and death, sir 1 What are 
they, sir, that we should do anything secu- 
lar to-day 1” 

“ But, Mr. Tangle, it’s the fate of that 
poor wretched boy ; and there isn’t a min- 
ute to lose,” urged the muffin-maker. 

“ I shall be very glad to see you in the 
way of business, to-morrow,” replied Tan- 
gle, laboring to appear very placid “ but I beg 
of you, my good man, not to disturb the cur- 
rent of my thoughts — of my Sabbath feel- 
ings — with anything secular to-day. To me 
the world is dead on Sund 9 .ys.” 

“ But won’t you do good on Sundays I” 
cried Capstick. — “ Your religion doesn’t for- 
bid that, I suppose 1” 

“ My good man, let me have none of your 
free-thinking ribaldry here. This is my 
door- step, and don’t defile my threshold with 
profanity. I have given you my answer. — 
Nothing secular to-day.” Saying this with 
increased vehemence, Mr. Tangle was hust- 
ling from the door after his family — who, 
looking wondering looks at Capstick and 
Jem, had walked statelily on, — when a car- 
riage rapidly turned the square, and in a mo- 
ment stopt at Tangle’s door. Instantly Mr. 
Tangle brought himself up ; and cast, cer- 
tainly, a look of secular curiosity towards 
the carriage-windows. In an instant, young 
Lord St. James alighted, and was followed 
by his tutor — worn and broken since we last 
met him — Mr. Folder. Mr. Tangle imme- 
diately recognised the young nobleman, and 
although it was Sunday, advanced towards 
him with pains-taking respect. “ Your wife 
told us you were here, Mr. Capstick,” said 
his lordship to the muffin-maker. 

“ Pray, sir, can we consult you upon a bu- 
siness that is somewhat urgent 1” said Fold- 
er to the attorney. 

“ Certainly, sir ; anything for his lordship. 
Excuse me one moment and Tangle, with 
unwonted agility, skipped after his wife and 
family. They must go to church without 
' him. A lord, a young lord, had called upon 
I him — that sweet young gentleman in the 
1 sky-blue coat and lace-collar — and, the bu- 


52 


THE HISTORY OF 


siness was imminent. He, the husband and 
father, would join them as soon as he could. 
With many backward, admiring looks at the 
lovely little nobleman, did Mr. Tangle’s fam- 
ily proceed on their way to church, whilst 
Tangle — the groaning victim to secular af- 
fairs — ushered young St. James and Mr. Fol- 
der into his mansion. “ We can do nothing 
without you,” said St. James to Capstick 
and Bright Jem ; who thereupon gladly fol- 
lowed, the attorney marvelling at the famil- 
iarity of the boy nobleman. 

“ What can I have the honor to do for his 
lordship 1” asked Mr. Tangle, with a smile 
dirt cheap at six and eight pence. 

“ We would not have troubled you to-day,” 
said St. James, “ only you see” — 

“ Don’t name it, my dear young lord !” 
exclaimed Tangle. 

“ Only,” chimed in Mr. Folder, “ they 
talk about hanging on Wednesday.” 

“ Very true,” said Tangle ; “ I believe the 
affair comes olf on Wednesday. A great pi- 
ty, sir ! Quite a child, sir ; and with good 
parts — very good parts. Nevertheless, sir, 
the crime of horse-stealing increases hourly ; 
and without some example is made, some 
strong example is made” — 

“ Why, they hanged four for horse-steal- 
ing last sessions,” said Capstick. 

Tangle looked around with astonishment 
at the interruption, and then observed — 
“ That only proves they don’t hang enough.” 

“ My opihion, Mr. Tangle ; quite my opin- 
ion. We want stronger laws, sir ; much 
stronger. If we were to hang for every- 
thing, there’d be an end of crime altogether. 
It’s because we only punish by halves — now 
hanging one, and now another — that we have 
such a continual growth of vice. We ought 
to pull crime up by the roots ; now our pre- 
sent merciful system makes it flourish the 
stronger. However, his young lordship 
doesn’t think so. He has the generosity of 
youth, and insists that St. Giles should not 
be hanged.” 

“ God bless him !” said Capstick. 

“ Amen !” said Bright Jem. 

“ I must request that we have no inter- 
ruption,” said Tangle, looking loftily at the 
offenders. “ Perhaps, sir,” and the lawyer 
turned to Folder, “ perhaps, you will state 
your case.” 

“Just a word in private,” said Folder; 
and Tangle immediately led him into a small 
adjoining room, and closed the door. “ You 
see, Mr. Tangle,” said Folder, “ I consider 
this to be a very foolish, weak business ; but 
the young gentleman is a spoilt child, and 
spoilt children will have their way. In one 
word, his lordship must be humored, and 
therefore St. Giles — though it would be 
much better for him to be put at once quiet- 
ly out of further mischief — must not be hang- 
ed. The Marquess has his own notions on 


the matter ; proper notions, too, they arei 
Mr. Tangle ; notions that do honor to him 
as a legislator, and would, 1 verily believe, 
let the law takes its course. But, poor 
man ! what can he do I” 

“ Do what he likes, can’t he I” asked Tan- 
gle. 

“ By no means: You see, it is with the 
boy as it was with the boy Themistocles,” 
said Mr. Folder. 

“ Really 1” observed Tangle. 

“ One of Plutarch’s own parallels. The 
boy rules the Marchioness, and the Marchi- 
oness rules” — 

“ I understhnd,” said Tangle ; “ rules the 
Marquess. It will happen so.” 

“ And therefore, the sum and end of it all 
is, the horse-stealer must be saved. Bless 
you ! his young lordship has threatened to 
fall sick and die, if St. Giles is hanged ; and 
has so frightened his poor mother, who 
again has made the Marquess so anxious, 
that — the fact is, we’ve come to -you.” 

“ It’s a great pity that I didn’t know all this 
before. The case, my dear sir, was a noth- 
ing — a very trumpery case,, indeed ; but 
then, to a man with my extensive practice, 
it was really not w'orth attending to. Oth- 
erwise, and to have obliged the noble fami- 
ly, I could have made sure of an alibi. It’s 
a great pity that so noble a family should be 
so troubled, and by such riff’-raff'l” said Tan- 
gle. 

“ It is, sir ; it is,” said Folder — “ you can 
feel for us. Now, there’s no doubt that, in 
so trifling a matter, the Marquess has more 
than sufficient intere.?t to save a thief or 
two ; nevertheless, I have suggested that a 
petition should be got up by the boy’s friends 
— if the wicked creature has any friends — 
and that so the Marquess — you understand ?” 

“ Perfectly,” replied Tangle : what would 
he not understand in such a case f “ There 
is nothing more easy than a petition. How 
many signatures would you like to it I Any 
number — though fifty will be good as five 
hundred.” 

“ Do you think the jury would sign P’ ask- 
ed Mr. Folder. “ Not that it’s of any con- 
sequence ; only for the look of the thing.” 

“ The foreman, I know, would not,” said 
Tangle. “ He lost a colt himself three years 
ago, and isn’t yet settled to the injury. Ne- 
vertheless, we can get up a very tidy sort 
of petition ; and with the Marquess’s inter- 
est — well ! that young St. Giles is a lucky 
little scoundrel ! he’ll make his fortune at 
Botany Bay.” 

“ And now, Mr. Tangle, that we under- 
stand one another, we’ll join, if you please, 
his lordship. — Well, my lord,” said Folder, 
returning, “ I have talked the matter over 
with Mr. Tangle, and though he gives very 
little hope — ” 

“ There’s all the hope in the world,” said 


ST. «3[LES AND ST. JAMES. 


Capstick, “ for his lordship says he’ll take 
the petition himself to the Minister, who’s 
his father’s friend, if I may advise the Mar- 
chioness, his mother — ” 

“My good man,” observed Mr. Folder, 
“we in no way need your advice in the 
matter. Hold your tongue.” 

“ Shouldn’t mind at all obliging you, sir, 
in any other way,” said the unruffled Cap- 
stick ; “ but, as his young lordship here, as 
he tells me, has been to my shop and all to 
see me about the matter, I think my tongue’s 
quite at his service.” 

“To be sure it is, Capstick,” said young 
St. James, “go on. Mr. Folder says 
they’d better hang St. Giles : and papa 
says so too ; but they shan’t do it for all 
that. Why, I should never have the heart 
to mount a horse again.” 

“ A noble little chap!” whispered Bright 
Jem to Capstick. 

“ And so, as I told you, Capstick, I went 
to your house, as you know all about the 
boy, and the boy’s friend, to see about a 
petition ; for that’s the way, they tell me — ” 

“ Give yourself no further trouble,” said 
Tangle, “ the petition shall be prepared, my 
lord. I’ll do it myself, this very day, though 
the affair is secular. N evertheless, to oblige 
your lordship” 

“You’re a good fellow,” said young St. 
James, patronising the lawyer ; and after a 
few preliminaries were settled, the confer- 
ence concluded. 


CHAPTER X. 

And young St. Giles lay in New'gate,sink' 
ing, withering, under sentence of death. Af- 
ter a time, he never cried, or clamoured ; he 
shed no tear, breathed no syllable of des- 
pair : but, stunned, stupefied, seemed as if 
idiotcy was growing on him. The ordinary 
— a good, zealous man — endeavored, by 
soothing, hopeful w'ords, to lead the prisoner, 
as the jail phrase has it, to a sense of his 
condition. Never had St. Giles received 
such teaching 1 Condemned to die, he for 
the first time heard of the abounding love of 
Christianity — of the goodness and affection 
due from man to man. The story seemed 
odd to him ; strange, very strange ; yet he 
supposed it was all true. Nevertheless — 
he could not dismiss the thought, it puzzled 
him. Why had he never been taught all 
this before 1 And why should he be pun- 
ished, hanged for doing wrong; when the 
good, rich, fine people, who all of them 
loved their neighbors like themselves, had 
never taught him what was right 1 Was it 
possible that Christianity was such a beau- 


tifol thing — and being so, was it possible 
that good earnest, kind-hearted Christians 
would kill him 1 

St. Giles had scarcely eight-and-forty 
hours to live. It was almost Monday noon, 
when the ordinary — having attended the 
other prisoners — entered the cell of the 
boy thief. He had been separated, by the 
desire of the minister, from his miserable 
companions, that their evil example of 
hardihood — their reckless bravado — might 
not wholly destroy the hope of growing truth 
within him. A turnkey attended St. Giles, 
reading to him. And now the boy would 
raise his sullen eyes upon the man, as he 
read of promises of grace and happiness 
eternal : and now his heart would heave as 
though he was struggling with an inward 
agony that seemed to suffocate him — and 
now a scornful, unbelieving smile would 
play about his mouth — and he would laugh 
with defying bitterness. And then he would 
leer in the face of the reader, as though he 
read to him some fairy tale, some prelty 
story, to amuse and gull him. Poor wretch ! 
Let the men who guide the world — the 
large-brained politicians, who tinker the so- 
cial scheme, making themselves the masters 
and guardians of their fellow-men — let them 
look into this Newgate dungeon ; let them 
contemplate this blighted human bud ; this 
child felon never taught the path of right, 
and now to be hanged for his most sinful 
ignorance. What a wretched, sullen out- 
cast ! What a darkened loathsome thing ! 
And now comes the clergyman — the State 
divine, be it remembered — to tell him that 
he is treasured with an immortal soul ; that 
— wdth mercy shed upon him — he will in a 
few hours be a creature of glory before the 
throne of God ! Oh, politicians ! Oh, 
rulers of the world I Oh, law-making mas- 
ters and taskers of the common million, may 
not this cast-off wretch, this human nuisance, 
be your accuser at the bar of heaven 1 — 
Egregious folly I Impossible 1 WTat — stars 
and garters impeached by rags and tatters ! 
St. James denounced by St. Giles ! Impu- 
dent and ridiculous! Yet here, we say, 
comes the reverend priest — the Christian 
preacher, with healing, honied words, whose 
Book — yo?/r Book — with angelic utterance, 
says no less. Let us hear the clergyman 
and his forlorn pupil. 

“ Well, my poor boy,” said the ordinary, 
with an affectionate voice and moistening 
eyes : “ well, my child, and how is it with 
you 1 Come, you are better ; you look bet- 
ter ; you have been listening to what your 
good friend here has been reading to you. 
And we are all your friends, here. At least, 
we all want to be. Don’t you think so ?” 

St. Giles slowly lifted his eyes towards 
the speaker.’ He then slowly, sullenly 
answered, — “ No, I don’t.” 


54 


THE HISTORY OF 




“ But you ought to try to think so, my 
boy ; it’s wicked not to try,” said the ordi- 
nary, very tenderly. 

“ If you’re all my friends, why do you 
keep me here I” said St. Giles. “ Friends ! 
I never had no friends.” 

“ You must not say that; indeed you must 
not. All our care is to make you quiet and 
happy in this world, that you may be hap- 
pier in the world you’re going to. You un- 
derstand me, St. Giles ? My poor dear 
boy, you understand me T The world you’re 
going to I” The speaker, inured as lie was 
to scenes of blasphemy, of brute indifference, 
and remorseful agony, was deeply touched 
by the forlorn condition of the boy ; who 
could not, would not, understand a tender- 
ness, the end of which was to surrender him 
softened to the hangman. “ You have 
thought, my dear — I say you have thought 
of the world” — and the minister paused — 
“ the world you are going to I” 

“ What’s the use of thinking about it ?” 
asked St. Giles. “I knows nothing of it.” 

“ That, my boy, is because you are obsti- 
nate, and I am sorry to say it, wicked, — 
and so won’t try to know about it. Otherwise, 
if you would give all your heart and soul to 
prayer,” 

“ I tell you, sir, I never was learnt to 
pray,” cried St. Giles, moodily ; “ and 
what’s the use of praying ?” 

“ You would find it open your heart, St. 
Giles ; and though you see nothing now, if 
you were only to pray long and truly, you 
would find the darkness go away from your 
eyes, and you’d see such bright and beauti- 
ful things about you, and you’d feel as light 
and happy as if you had wings at your back, 
— you would, indeed. Then you’d feel that 
all we are doing for you is for the best ; 
then, my poor boy,” said the ordinary with 
growing fervor, “ then you’d feel what 
Christian love is.” 

“ Robert’s been reading to me about that,” 
said St. Giles, “ but 1 can’t make it out no- 
how. He says that Christian love means 
that we shouldn’t do to nobody what we 
wouldn’t like nobody to do to ourselves.” 

“ A good boy,” said the ordinary, “ that 
is the meaning, though not the words. I’m 
glad you’ve so improved.” 

“ And for all that, you tell me that I must 
think o’ dying — think of another world and 
all that — think of going to Tyburn, and, 
and” — here the boy fell hoarse ; his face 
turned ash-color, and reeling, he was about 
to fall, when the ordinary caught him in his 
arms, and again placed him on a seat. “ It’s 
nothin’ — nothin’ at all,” cried St. Giles, 
struggling with himself— “ I’m all right ; I’m 
game.” 

“ Don’t say that, child ; I can’t hear you 
say that ; I would rather see you in tears 
and pain than trying to be game as you call 


it. That my boy is only adding crime to 
wickedness. Come, we were talking of 
Christian love,” said the ordinary. 

“ I knows nothin’ about it,” said St. Giles ; 
“ all I know is this, — it isn’t true ; it can’t 
be true.” 

“ Tell me ; why not ! Come, let me here 
all you’d say,” urged the clergyman tenderly. 

“ ’Cause if it means that nobody should 
do to nobody what nobody would like to 
have done to themselves, why does anybody 
keep me locked up here 1 Why did the 
judge say I was to be — ^you know, Mister I” 

“ That was for doing wrong, my boy ; 
that was for your first want of Christian 
love. You were no Christian when you 
stole the horse,” said the ordftiary. “ Had 
the horse been yours, you would have felt 
wronged and injured had it been stolen from 
you 1 You see that, eh, my boy 1” 

“ Didn’t think o’ that,” said St. Giles 
gloomily — “ But I didn’t steal it ; ’twas all 
along o’ Tom Blast ; and now he’s got off ; 
and I’m here in the Jug. You don’t call 
that justice, no how, do you ^ But I don’t 
care ; they may do what they like with me ; 
I’ll be game.” 

“ No, my dear boy, you must know better : 
you must, indeed — you must give all 'your 
thoughts to prayer, and” 

“ It’s o’ no use. Mister ; I tell you I never 
was learnt to pray, and I don’t know' how to 
go about it. More than that, I feel some- 
how ashamed to it. And besides, for all 
your talk. Mister, and you talk very kind to 
me, I must say, I can’t feel like a Christian, 
as you call it, — for I can’t see wdiy Chris- 
tians should want to kill me if Christians are 
such good people as you talk about.” 

“ But then, my poor boy,” said the ordinary, 
“ though young, you must remember, you’re 
an old sinner. You’ve done much wicked- 
ness.” 

“ 1 never done nothing but what I was 
taught ; and if you say— and Bob there’s 
been reading it to me — that the true Chris- 
tian forgives every body — well then, in 
course, the judge and all the nobs are no 
Christians, else wouldn’t they forgive me I 
Wouldn’t they like it so, to teach me better, 
and not to kill me 1 But I don’t mind ; I’ll be 
game — precious !” 

The ordinary, with a perplexed look, sighed 
deeply. The sad condition of the boy, the 
horrid death awaiting him, the natural shrewd- 
ness with which he combated the arguments 
employed for his conversion, affected the 
wortliy clergyman beyond all past experience. 

“ Miserable little wretch !” he thought, “ it 
will be worst of murders, if he dies thus.” 
And then, again, he essayed to soften the 
child felon, who seemed determined to stand 
at issii^ with his spiritual counsellor ; to re- 
cede no step, but to the gallovv’s foot to defy 
him. It would be his ambition, his glory— 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


if he must die — to die game. He had heard 
the praises bestowed upon such a death — 
had known the contemptuous jeering flung 
upon the repentant craven — and he would be 
the theme of eulogy in Hog Lane — he would 
not be laughed, sneered at, for “ dying dung- 
hill.” And this temper so grew and strength- 
ened in St. Giles, that, at length, the ordi- 
nary, wearied and hopeless, left his forlorn 
charge, promising soon to return, and hoping, 
in his ,own words, to find the prisoner “ a 
kinder, better, and more Christian boy.” 

“ It’s no use your reading that stuff to me,” 
said St. Giles, as the turnkey was about to 
resume his book ; “ I don’t understand noth- 
in’ of it, and it’s too late to learn. , But, I 
say, can’t you tell us somethin’ of Turpin 
and Jack Sheppard, eh ? Something prime, 
to give us pluck ?” 

Come, come,” answered the man, “ it’s 
no use going on in this way. You must be 
quiet and listen to me ; it’s all for your 
good, I tell you : all for your good.” 

“ My good ! Well, that’s pretty gammon, 
that is. I should like to know what can be 
for my good if I’m to be hanged ? Ha ! ha ! 
See if 1 don’t kick my shoes off, that’s all.” 
And St. Giles would not^ listen ; but sat on 
the stool, swinging his legs backwards and 
forwards, and singing one of the melodies 
known in Hog Lane — poor wretch ! it had 
been a cradle melody to him — whilst the turn- 
key vainly endeavored to soothe and interest 
him. At length the man discontinued his 
hopeless task ; and, in sheer listlessness, 
leaning his back against the wall, fell asleep. 
And now St. Giles was left alone. And 
now, i;elieved of importunity, did he forego 
the bravado that had supported him, and 
solemnly think of his approaching end ? Did 
he, with none other but the eye of God, in 
that stone cell, upon him — did he shrink and 
wither beneath the look; and, on bended 
knees, with opened heart, and flowing, re- 
pentant tears, did he pray for Heaven’s com- 
passion— God’s sweet mercy? No. Yet 
thoughts, deep, anxious tlioughts were brood- 
ing in his heart. His face grew older with 
the meditation that shadowed it. All his 
being seemed compressed, intensified in one 
idea. Gloomily, yet with whetted eyes, he 
looked around his cell : and still darker and 
darker grew his face. Could he break pris- 
on? Such was the question — the foolish, 
idle, yet flattering question that his soul put 
to itself. All his recollections of the glory 
of Turpin and Sheppard crowded upon him 
— and what greater glory would it be for 
him if he could escape ! He, a boy to do 
this ? He to be sung in ballads — to be talk- 
ed of, huzzaed, and held up for high example, 
long after he should he dead — passed fqr ever 
from the world ? The proud thought glowed 
within him — made his heart heave — and his 
eyes sparkle. And then he looked about his 


55 

cell, and the utter hopelessness of the thought 
fell upon him, withering his heart. Yet 
again and again — although to be crushed 
with new despair — he gazed about him, 
dreaming of liberty without that wall of flint. 
And thus his waking hours passed ; and thus, 
in the visions of the night, his spirit busied 
itself in hopeful vanity. 

The Tuesday morning came, and again 
the clergyman visited the prisoner. The 
boy looked paler, thinner — no more. There 
was no softness in his eyes, no appealing 
glance of hope : but a fixed and stubborn 
look of inquiry. “ He didn’t know nothing 
of what the parson had to say, and he didn’t 
want to be bothered. It was all gammon !” 
These were the words of the boy felon, then 
— such was the humanity of the law; poor 
law ! what a long nonage of discretion has 
it passed ! — then within a day’s span of the 
grave. 

As the hour of death approached, the cler- 
gyman became more assiduous, fervent, nay, 
passionate in his appeals to the prisoner; 
who still strengthened himself in opposition 
to his pastor. “My dear boy, — my poor 
child — miserable, helpless creature ! — the 
grave is open before you — the sky is opening 
above you ! Die without repentance, and 
you will pass into the grave, and never — 
never know immortal blessings ! Your soul 
will perish — perish as I have toW you — in 
fire, in fire eternal !” 

St. Giles swayed his head to and fro, and 
with a sneer asked, “What’s the good o’ all 
this ? Haven’t you told me so, Mister, agin 
and agin ?” 

The ordinary groaned almost in despair, 
yet still renewed his task. “ The heavens, 
I tell you, are opening for you ; repent, my 
child ; repent, poor boy, and you will be an 
immortal spirit, welcomed by millions of 
angels.” 

St. Giles looked with bitter incredulity at 
his spiritual teacher. “ Well, if all that’s 
true,” he said, “ it isn’t so hard to be hanged, 
arter all. But I don’t think the nobs like 
me so well, as to send me to sich a place as 
that.” 

“ Nay, my poor boy»” said the ordinary, 
“ you will not, cannot understand me, until 
you pray. Now, kneel — my dear child, 
kneel and let us pray together.” Suyiag 
this, the ordinary fell upon his knees ; but 
St. Giles, folding his arms, so planted him- 
self as to take firmer root of the ground ; 
and so he stood with moody, determined 
looks, whilst the clergyman — touched more 
than was his wont — poured forth a passion- 
ate prayer that the heart of the young sinner 
might be softened ; that it might be turned 
from slone into flesh, and become a grateful 
sacrifice to the throne of God. And whilst 
this prayer, in deep and solemn tones, rose 
from the prison-cell, he for whom the prayer 


56 


THE HISTORY OF 


was formed, seemed to grow harder, more 
obdurate, with every syllable. Still, he re- 
fused to bend his knee at the supplication 
of the clergyman, but stood eyeing him with 
a mingled look of incredulity, defiance, and 
contempt. “ God help you — poor lost lamb !” 
cried the ordinary, as he rose. 

“ Now, I hope we shall have no more o’ 
that,” was the only answer of St. Giles. 

The ordinary was about to quit the cell, 
when the door was opened, and the governor 
of the jail, attended by the head turnkey, 
entered. “ My dear sir, I am glad to find 
you here,” said the governor to the ordinary. 

I have a pleasing duty to perform : a duty 
that I know it will delight you to witness.” 
The ordinary glanced at a paper held by the 
governor ; his eyes brightened ; and clasp- 
ing his hands, he fervently uttered — “ Thank 
God !” 

The governor then turned to St. Giles, 
who suddenly looked anxious and restless. 
“ Prisoner,” he said, “ it is my happiltiess to 
inform you, that his gracious Majesty has 
been mercifully pleased to spare your life. 
You will not suffer with the unfortunate men 
to-morrow. You understand me, boy” — for 
St. Giles looked suddenly stupefied — “ you 
understand me, that the good King, whom 
you should ever pray for, has, in the hope 
that you will turn from the wickedness of 
your ways, determined to spare your life '! 
You will be sent out of the country ; and 
time given you that, if you properly use, 
will make you a good and honest man.” 

St. Giles made no answer, but trembled 
violently from head to foot. Then his face 
flushed red as flame, and covering it with 
his hands, he fell upon his knees ; and the 
tears ran streaming through his fingers. 
“Pray with me ; pray for me !” he cried, in 
broken voice, to the ordinary. 

And the ordinary knelt, and rendered up 
“ humble and hearty thanks” for the mercy 
of the King ! 

We will not linger in the prison — St. 
Giles was destined for Botany Bay. Mr. 
Capstick was delighted, in his own way, that 
the ends of justice would be satisfied ; and 
whilst he rejoiced with the triumph of jus- 
tice, he did not forget the evil-doer ; for St. 
Giles received a packet from the muffin- 
maker, containing sundry little comforts for 
his voyage. 

“We shall never see him again, Jem,” 
said Mrs. Aniseed, as she left Newgate, 
weeping ; having taken her farewell of the 
young transport. “ He’s gone for ever from 
us.” 

“Not he,” said Bright Jem; “we shall 
see him again another feller quite — a true 
man, yet ; Pm sure of it.” 

Whether Bright Jem was a true prophet 
will in due season be discovered by the 
patient reader of the next chapters. 


CHAPTER XL 

Some nine years had passed since young 
St. Giles — the fortunate object of royal 
mercy — was sent from England a doomed 
slave for life. For life ! Hope, so far as 
man can kill it in the heart of his fellow, 
was dead to the convict. He had sinned 
against the law, and its offended majesty — 
for such was and is the phrase — denied to 
the offender the reward of better conduct. 
Man, in the loftiness of his own pure 
thoughts, in the besetting consciousness of 
his own immaculate worth, deems his crimi- 
nal brother incapable of future good, and 
therefore considers only the best security of 
the machine ; how the bones and muscles, 
the brute strength of the engine may be 
withheld from further mischief It matters 
little to the guardian of the laws, to the 
maker of statutes for the protection of pro- 
perty, what aggravated demon, what pining 
penitent spirit, yearning for better thoughts, 
may dw^ell within the felon, so that the chain 
at his leg be of sufficient w^eight and hind- 
rance. How very recent is it, that many 
of the good people of this world did not con- 
sider a part of their very goodness to be in 
their belief of the incorrigibility of the felon ! 
It was to make too familiar an approach to 
their respectability to suggest the probability 
of amendment in the doomed thief. It was, 
in a manner, to hold cheap their honesty, to 
suppose the virtue attainable by the once 
wicked. Human arrogance is, assuredly, 
never so pitiable as when, in the snug be- 
lief of its own election, it looks upon its fel- 
low, in this world, as irrevocably lost. But 
then, there is a sort of virtue that, not par- 
ticularly shining in itself, has need of vice 
to throw it out ; just as the lights of Rem- 
brandt owe their lustre to the shadows about 
them. Considered after this hard fashion — 
and full well we know the sort of worthy 
people who will shake their heads at our 
miserable bitterness — yes, bitterness is the 
word — there is a 'kind of respectable man, 
who, although he may disallow the obliga- 
tion, is somewhat indebted for his respect- 
ability to the proved rascal. The convicted 
knave is the dark tint to his little speck of 
yellow white : he is lustrous only by con- 
trast. And after this short, uncharitable 
essay on black and white, we resume our 
history ; leaving for the present the events 
of nine years unregistered — nine years from 
the time that young St. Giles quitted New- 
gate for the genial clime of Botany Bay. 

It was a beautiful spring evening — last 
of the spring, yet fresh with all its green.” 
The peace of heaven seemed upon the earth. 
An hour and scene when the heart is soft- 
ened and subdued by the spirit of beauty ; 
when the whole visible world seems to us 
an appointed abiding-place for truth and 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


57 


gentleness ; and it is with hard reluctance 
we believe that tyranny, and woe, and wdck- 
ddness exist within it. One of the happy 
hours that, sweet in the present, are yet 
more delicious in the past ; treasured as 
they are, as somewhat akin to the hours of 
the world’s youth, when the earth was trod 
by angels. 

The broad, fat fields of Kent lay smiling 
in the sun ; the trim hedges, clothed in 
tender green ; the budding oaks, the guardian 
giants of the soil ; the wayside cottage, with 
garden- strip brimming with flowers ; all 
things wore a look of peace and promise. 
A young gentleman, plainly habited, and well 
mounted, rode leisurely along ; but, however 
beautiful the scene around him, it w'as plain, 
from the brooding, melancholy expression 
of his features, that he had no sympathy 
wdth the quietude and. sweetness of external 
nature ; but was self-concentrated, buried in 
deep thought. The loosened reinlay on his 
horse’s neck, and the rider, apparently un- 
conscious of all around him, was borne list- 
lessly along, until the road opened into a 
patch of moor-Ia,nd, when a second horse- 
man, at a sharp trot, overtook the idle rider. 

“ A fine night, sir, for a lazy man,” said 
the stranger, in a loud and somewhat familiar 
tone. 

“ And why,” answered the young gentle- 
man, in a peculiarly soft and gentle voice, 

why, sir, for a lazy man 1” 

“ Oh ! I mean there’s a sort of dreannness' 
in the air — a kind of sleepiness, if I may say 
it, aWit the night, that to folks who love to 
creep about the world with folded arms and 
half-shut eyes, is the very time for ’em. 
You know, sir, there are such people,” said 
the man, with a laugh. 

“ Possibly,” replied the younger horse- 
man ; who then, with a reserved and digni- 
fied motion, urged his steed, as though de- 
sirous to quit himself of his new companion. 
The stranger, however, was not a man to be 
bowed or looked away Aflecting not to 
perceive the intention of the youth, he mend- 
ed his pace, and, quite at his ease, resumed 
the conversation. 

“You are well mounted, sir,” he said, 
casting a learned look at his companion’s 
horse. “ Strong, yet lightly built : I doubt 
not on pressing service, now, she’d carry 
double — I mean,” added the stranger, with 
an odd, familiar glance, “ I mean with a 
pillion.” 

“ I can’t say,” was the calm, cold answer ; 
but the stranger heeded not the rebuif. 

“ Oh, yes !” he cried, “ I would I might 
have the richest heiress for the carrying her- 
on such horse-flesh : did she weigh twenty 
thousand w^eight, your mare would do it. 
An heiress ! Or a fair lady who’d slip her 
white wrists from a chain that galled her.” 
The young man looked suddenly in the 


speaker’s face, as though to detect some 
meaning there revealed ; but, careless and 
unabashed, and as though idly giving utter- 
ance to idle thoughts, the stranger continued, 
“ There are such poor pining things, sir, if 
a true knight knew where to find ’em : there 
are distressed ladies, who, I doubt it not- 
would trust themselves to the back of youi 
mare, even though, like the flying horse I’ve 
read of, she took ’em to the moon. To be 
sure,” said the stranger with a slight chuckle, 
“ the moon, for what I know, would be the 
fittest place for ’em. That’s a strange nook, 
sir, isn’t and the man pointed to a small, 
oddly-fashioned house, almost buried among 
high and gloomy trees, about a bow-shot 
from the road. “ Small as it is, it looks as 
if it had been built by twenty different buil- 
ders, and every one trying to do something 
odd and strange on his own account. A 
queer place, and a queer master, if all be 
true of him.” At these words the^ young man, 
with a confused look, stooped to par his 
horse’s neck, saying the meanwhile, “In- 
deed 1 and what is known of the master ?” 

“ Why, there are twenty stories about 
him ; but of course some of ’em can’t be 
true. However, what’s known for fact is, 
he’s rich as the Indies, and moreover, he’s 
got a young wife.” 

“ Is that all 1” asked the young man, with 
affected carelessness. “ Is it so rare a 
matter that a rich old man should buy him- 
self a young helpmate V’ 

“ Humph! Helpmate’s a pretty word, sir, 
— a mighty pretty word ; but the help that 
three-score gets from three-and-twenty, eh! 
No, sir ; money in this marketing world of 
ours may buy much, but — flighty and frivo- 
lous and butterfly-like as the things some- 
times are — it can’t always buy a woman’s 
heart. However, this it ca?i purchase ; it 
can buy a cage to put the poor thing in ; it 
can buy eyes to watch her ; hands to guard 
her ; and so, old Snipeton may keep his pet- 
lamb safe from London wolves — safe as his 
parchments in his strong-box.” 

“ You seem, sir,” said the young man with 
animated looks, “ yop seem to know Mr. 
Snipeton.” 

Why, sir,” answered the stranger, “ I’m 
of London training, London habits ; have, 
in my day — indeed who has not t — wanted a 
few hundreds ; and is not Snipeton a man 
of benevolence — a man of profound heart 
and deepest money-bags I Is he not ever 
ready to assist his fellow-creatures at any- 
thing above sixty per cent. ? Oh, you must 
know Snipeton,” said the stranger, with a 
familiar laugh. “ Yes, yes ; you must know 
him.” 

“ From what circumstance do you gather 
such belief?” asked the young man, a little 
haughtily. 

“ Why, you live a London life — oh, yes, 


58 


THE HISTORY OF 


sir, there’s no country, hawthorn-look about ] 
you — you have London wants, and such 
things will happen to the richest, the lord- 
liest of us ; at times the dice will go wrong 
— the devil will shuffle the cards — and then, 
our honor — yes that’s the fiend’s name — our 
honor, willy-nilly sends us to some such 
good man as Ebenezer Snipeton. Why, he’s 
as well known to the bloods of London as 
Bridewell’s known to the prentices.” 

“ And pray, sir,” asked the young man, 
with some effort at carelessness, “ do you 
know the victim — I mean, the usurer’s wife 1” 

“ I can’t say that,” answered the stranger. 
“And yet I’ve seen her before she wore 
chains; seen her when she lived with the 
old man, her father. Ha ! sir, that was a bit- 
ter business.” 

“ Pray, tell me,” said the young man. 
“ I know not wherefore I should care about 
it, and yet there is an interest in what you 
say that — I pray, tell me, sir.” 

“You see, her father was. a worn-out, 
broken merchant. His wife, as I have 
heard, went wrong, and from that time his 
head failed him — ^he grew wild and reckless 
— losses came thick as hail upon him, and 
then Snipeton came to his assistance — ^yes, 
assistance is what he called it — and bound 
him round and round with bills and bonds, 
and I know not what, and made him all his 
own. Well, in good time, old Snipeton 
looked upon the girl — it isn’t a new story, 
though a sad and wicked one — and she be- 
came the usurer’s wife, to save her father 
from the usurer’s fangs. Pity is it that she 
did so ; for the old man died only a few 
weeks after the wedding that made his 
child — kind, affectionate thing ! — a slave for 
life. ’T would be a pretty world, sir, wouldn’t 
it, but for tricks like these, — and they, 
somehow, take the bloom off it, don’t they 1 
Eh, sir 1 Good night, sir and then the 
stranger suddenly clapped spurs to his horse, 
and galloped onward. Taking a bend of the 
road, he was in a few minutes out of sight ; 
upon which our solitary traveller, evidently 
relieved from an irksome companion, turned 
his steed, and slowly retraced his way. He 
again relapsed into thought — again suffered 
his horse to wander at its own will onward. 
Thus absorbed he had proceeded a short 
distance when his eye fell upon a miserable 
man, seated on a mile-stone. He was in 
rags, and almost bare-foot, and there was 
the sharp spirit of want and hunger in his 
features, that told a tale of many sufferings. 
He spoke not — made no gesture of suppli- 
cation — but looked with idle, glazing eye 
upon the earth. This object of desolation — 
this poor tatterdemalion wretch — suddenly 
smote our traveller into consciousness ; and 
with a kind, compassionate voice he ac- 
costed him. “ My poor fellow, you seem in 
no plight for travel.” 


“Bad enough, sir,” said the man, “bad 
enough; yet hardly as bad as' I wish it 
was.” 

“ Indeed ! A strange wish ! Why, I 
take it, human strength could scarcely bear 
a heavier load of wretchedness.” 

“ I wish it couldn’t bear it,” said the man ; 
“ I’m tired of it — heart-tired, and could lay 
down my life as willingly as a pack.” 

“ Where do you come from ?” asked the 
stranger. 

“ Oh, sir ! a long way from here — a long 
way ; and why I came I know not : I was a 
restless fool, and might have died where I 
was.” 

“ And where are your friends ?” questioned 
the traveller. 

“ God only knows,” said the man, with a 
heavy groan ; “ I don’t.” 

“ Poor fellow ! but hope for better times,” 
said the traveller ; and at the same moment, 
throwing him a crown-piece, the youth rode 
briskly on. 

And thus unknown to one another did St. 
Giles and St. James again meet. Again 
was St. Giles an outcast, hiding from the 
law ; for he had escaped from his far-off place 
of bondage, and yearning for England, for 
the lovely land in which he had no rightful 
footstep, in whose abounding wealth he had 
not the interest of a farthing ; he had dared 
death and peril in many shapes, and hunger 
and all variety of misery, to stand once more 
upon his native soil. He knew that, if dis- 
covered, the hangman would claim him as 
lawful prey ; he knew that he must hide and 
slink through life in the mere hope of hold- 
ing life’s poor mockery ; and yet, he had 
slipped his chains, had suffered the misery of 
a tliousand deaths, that he might once again 
behold an English sky, once again tread 
English earth ! Poor wretch ! how soon did 
hard reality disenchant him ! How few the 
days he had passed in England, yet how* 
many the terrors that had encompassed him ! 
J’he land that in his dreams of bondage had 
seemed to him a Paradise ; the very men 
who in his hopeful visions had promised gen- 
tleness and protection ; all was changed. 
The earth, lovely and fruitful to happy eyes, 
to him seemed cursed ; and all men, to his 
thought, looked at him with denouncing 
looks. With a crushed heart, and in the 
very recklessness of despair, he would again 
have welcomed the chains he had broken 
from. Again, and again too, could he have 
stretched himself upon the earth as upon a 
bed, and rendered up his tired and hopeless 
spirit to his God. And then fierce thoughts 
of vengeance on the world’s injustice would 
possess him ; then he would deem himself as 
one sent upon the earth, missioned for mis- 
chief; a mere wretch of prey, to live by 
wrong and violence. And thus, with the 
demon rising in his breast, was he brooding 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


59 


when St. James accosted him. But when 
the young man, the child of fortune, soothed 
the5)oor outcast with gentle words and timely 
relief, the sullen, desperate wretch, became 
on the instant penitent -and softened ; and his 
touched heart felt there was goodness still 
in man, and beauty in the world. The 
thoughts of life came back to him in health- 
ful sn-ength ; for his jaded spirit had drunk 
at the fountain of hope. In the fervor of his 
gratitude, he felt not that in a day or two at 
most, the sun might see the nhisery of the 
past hour again upon him. It was enough 
that he had the means of present comfort ; 
that he could quench the fire of hunger ; that 
he could rest his travel-worn body. With 
this glad assurance he cast about his thoughts 
for a place of refuge. He knew not the 
road ; knew not what offered as he advanced ; 
but he remembered that he had passed a 
house a little more than a mile back, and re- 
tracing his steps, he would there seek refuge 
for the night. Though his heart was light- 
ened, he walked with difficulty, and the even- 
ing closed in rapidly about his path. It was 
a calm and beautiful night, and the clear 
moon rose like a spirit in heaven. Suddenly 
St. Giles was startled by the sound of horses’ 
feet ; and in an instant the animal, bearing a 
rider whose outline was but for a moment 
visible, at its fullest speed passed him; a 
minute, and the sound of hoofs died in the 
distance.' There was something strange in 
such haste ; something that fell upon St. 
Giles with a sense of evil done ; for a time 
tie paused, asking counsel of himself; and 
then his sinking vitals, his worn and wearied 
body, claimed his instant exertion, and again 
tie pressed onward. In half-an-hour he 
arrived at the wished-for house. Lights 
shone in the windows ; there was dancing, 
and the voice of village harmony was loud 
within. Wherefore, then, did St. Giles 
pause at the very threshold ? Wherefore, 
then, did his knees feel weak, and his very 
heart sink numbed and dead, as he saw the 
cheerful light, and heard human voices 
c.lamoring their happiness ? Wherefore 
should he not join the merry-makers ? Alas ! 
was there not convict written in his haggard 
cheeks — felon branded on his brow ? Would 
tie not, with a howl of triumph, be set upon 
by his fellow-men, and, like a wild beast 
escaped from a cage, be carried back to 
gaol? His brain swam with the thought, 
and he almost fell to the earth. “Why, 
what’s the matter, mate ?” said a country- 
man, noting St. Giles’s hesitation. “ Why 
don’t thee step in? There be plenty of 
room, if thee have the cash, though it be 
crowded a plenty.” 

“ Thank’ee ; I was a going in,” said St. 
Giles ; and with sudden resolution he entered 
the house. Happily for him, he thought, the 
place was thronged. A village-ball was 


held up stairs, and the house throbbed and 
rocked beneath the vigorous feet of the 
dancers. The resources of the neighbor- 
hood, however, had supplied one fiddle to the 
lower room — tap-room it must be called, in- 
asmuch as there were ten square feet of a 
sanded floor that passed for a parlor — and the 
musician, the village tailor, touched by Phoe- 
bus generously accommodated his instrument 
to the various keys and many variations of 
the singers. Shortly after St. Giles entered, 
the ears of the company were engaged by 
the patriotic strains of the barber of the ham- 
let, who, with vigor and taste happily mingled, 
celebrated in good strong, homely verse the 
magnanimity, courage, and glory of the Brit- 
ish Lion ; an animal that has, in its day, had 
as many fine things written of it as an opera 
singer. And as the barber sang, fifty throats 
joined in chorus, declaratory of the might of 
the aforesaid British Lion, and evidently 
claiming a sort of partnership in its great- 
ness. For the time, the British Lion was to 
them a very intimate relation ; and they cele- 
brated its glories as though they had a family 
interest in them. And St. Giles himself — to 
his passing astonishment — piped the praises 
of the British Lion ! The outcast vagabond, 
with fear pulling at his heart, had slid among 
the company, trembling at every man’s eye, 
as it fell upon him ; but soon he had quaffed 
some ale, he had eaten invigorating bread 
and cheese, and his heart, suffused and warm, 
had cast away all coward thought, and in the 
fulness of its gratitude, in the very surprise 
of its happiness, had chirped aloud to the 
honor of the Britisli Lion ; albeit the said 
Lion, as a very prominent actor in the arms 
of England — as the typical defender of our 
hearths and homes, our dearest morals, and 
sometimes our dearer property — might very 
justifiably have required the returned convict 
for its dinner. In very truth, St. Giles was 
the lawful prey of the defrauded, cheated 
British Lion ; and yet St. Giles, in the igno- 
rance of his happiness, sang to the praises 
of the Lion as though the royal beast had 
been to him his best friend. But then St. 
Giles sang as a patriot, though in his heart 
and soul he might feel no better than a felon. 
Wicked, hypocritic St. Giles ! In all history, 
did ever man, in higher places, too, do the 
like? 

It was well for St. Giles that he had forti- 
fied himself with a cup of ale, with a few 
mouthfuls of food, ere the maiden who at- 
tended to the wants of the visitors, asked 
him for the requiting coin. Otherwise St. 
Giles had felt somewhat abashed to display 
his wealth : the furniture of his pocket, and 
his outside chattels, in no way harmonising 
together. The crown-piece would have 
confused St. Giles ; as to eyes sharpened by 
money — and what a whetstone it is even to 
eyes of duff st vision ! — ^he felt that he in no 


60 


THE HISTORY OF 


way looked like a man to be lionestly pos- 
sessed of so much wealth. Either he would 
have thought the lawful metal of the coin 
might be questioned; or that difficulty over- 
come, his rightful claim to it disputed. And 
then, had he out with the truth, who, he 
thought, in the narrowness of his heart, would 
believe him ? What ! anybody give a beggar 
a crown-pieqe ? Then, at once, believe the 
moon coagulated cream, or any other house- 
hold substance. But, happily, we say, for 
St. Giles, his heart was suddenly warmed ; 
and, therefore, with a careless, happy air, 
never suspecting the suspicions of others, he 
laid his crown-piece in the hand of the at- 
tendant nymph — or, if you will, bacchante ; 
and she, with all the trustingness and sim- 
plicity of her sex, never looked at St. Giles 
and then at his money — as though, as is 
sometimes done, comparing the face of flesh 
and the face of metal, to mark if they be 
worthy of each other-^^but instantly gave the 
change, with a blithe “ thank’ee” for the 
patronage. Presumptuous is man ! <St. 
Giles, who, five minutes before, felt himself 
wretched, terrified at the thought of singing 
in the tap-room of the Lamb and Star, was 
now made so bold by his happiness, that, his 
eyes meeting the bright orbs of Becky, full 
and swimming as they v/ere with satisfaction, 
and her little plump anatomy swaying to and 
fro, in kindly sympathy with the dancers up- 
stairs-*-St. Giles, we say, in the hardihood 
of his sudden confidence, laughed and chuck- 
ed Becky under the chin. And Becky^ look- 
ing not more than decently ferocious, bounc- 
ed lightly round, cried, “Well, I’m sure!” 
and then, as if nothing had happened, attended 
the call of another customer. 

And could St. Giles so soon forget that he 
was a returned convict, as with slight provo- 
cation to chuck the maiden of the Lamb and 
Star under the chin 1 But such is the heart 
of man ! 

When the clamor of the room was at its 
highest, a young man sparkishly dressed 
suddenly looked in, and was as suddenly 
greeted by the merry-makers. A loud cheer 
for “ Master Willis” shook the roof-tree. 
The new comer was a man of about five-and- 
twenty; of tall and welbknit frame, with 
large, fresh-colored features, and a profusion 
of black hair ; the very man to kill village 
hearts by dozens. He seemed in the highest 
spirits ; indeed, almost unnaturally gay. 
There was something in his labored vivacity 
that might have awakened the attention of a 
less merry audience ; a hollowness in his 
loud, roaring laugh, that hardly seemed of 
mirth. But Master Willis was among friends, 
admirers : he was the favorite of the men, 
the admired of the women ; besides, he rarely 
failed, on occasions such as the present, to 
play the patron. Hence, after a few mo- 
ments, in which his hand was grasped by at 


least twenty humble acquaintances, he g3V6* 
an order that “ ale was to be served all 
round.” This largess was hailed with ^^ew 
acclamation. When it had subsided. Master 
Willis, whth a significant, killing look, bado 
all his friends be happy together; but that 
for himself, why he must join the girls, and 
liave a dqnce np-stairs 1 This gallantry was 
met with another burst of applause, in the 
midst of v«^hich Master Willis, all smiles and 
happiness, disappeared. 

“ And who is that gentleman ?” St. Giles 
ventured to ask of the barber, at the time his 
nearest neighbor. 

“ Who is he ? Well, where did you come 
from ? Not know him ! Where wore you 
born ?” cried the barber. 

“ I’m — I’m a stranger hereabouts,” answer- 
ed St. Giles, a little vexed with himself for 
his untimely curiosity. 

“ So I should think, not to know Master 
Willis. A stranger ! Why, I should take 
you for a Frenchman, or an outlandish for- 
eigner of some sort, never to have heard of 
him. The best hand at bowls and single- 
stick — the best hunter — the best shot — the 
best everything. Well, you do look like a 
foreigner,” said the barber, glancing at St, 
Giles in a way that made him heart-sick, 

“ I’m a true Englishman,” said St. Giles, 

“ though I’ve been some years out of the 
country.” 

“Ha! serving your king, and all, that?” 
said the barber. St, Giles nodded. ‘‘ Well, 
like a good many of the sort, you don’t seem 
to have made your fortin by it. But then, I 
suppose, you’ve got a lot of glory ? Now, 
within a dozen or two, can you tell us how 
many Frenchmen you’ve killed ?” St. Giles 
winced from the small grey eyes of the bar- 
ber, who, as though conscious of the con- 
fusion he created, pursued his queries with 
growling self-satisfaction. “You can’t tell 
us how many, eh ? A precious lot I should 
think, by the look of you. Well, if all over 
you don’t smell of gunpowder;” and the bar- 
ber affectedly held his nostrils, to give, as he ' 
conceived, admirable point to his wit. St. 
Giles felt his patience fast ^departing : he 
therefore opened his hands, and fixing his 
eye upon the barber, again leisurely doubled 
his fists. The look, the gesture, was instant- 
ly understood by the wag, for immediately 
dropping his tone of banter, he became most 
courteously communicative. “But you was 
asking about Master Willis ? To be sure— 
as a stranger, it’s nat'ral you shouldn’t know. 
Well, his uncle’s the richest farmer a huni 
red miles about. His land’s as fat as butter, 
and Master Bob — ^we call him Boll here — 
will have every inch of it. He’s a wild fel- 
low, to be sure. Doesn’t mind, when the 
temper’s on him, knocking down a man like 
a bullock ; but bless you ! no harm in him — 
not a bit of harm. My service to you,” and 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


61 


<liiaffing the ale— Master Willis’s liberal gift 
— the barber moved himself away. 

The time wore on, and St. Giles, exhaust- 
ed by fatigue, made drowsy with his enter- 
tainment, dared to think of bed ! Yes ; he 
had the hardihood to promise himself, that 
night at least, the shelter of a roof. “ My 
good girl,” said he, in a confidential whisper 
to Becky, “ can I sleep anywhere here to- 
night ? Anywhere, you know?” 

“ Why, you see,” answered Becky, her 
eyes instinctively wandering from rag to rag, 
as worn b}?" St. Giles, “ W'hy, you see, the 
missus is very particlar.” And then Becky, 
despite of her, looked dubiously at the toes 
of St. Giles, indecorously showing their des- 
titution to the world. Having, quite uncon- 
sciously, counted the said toes, and assured 
herself there were ten of them, all in flagrant 
want of shoe-leather, Becky repeated, with 
even more emphasis — “ VeVy particlar.” 

“ I dare say — she’s right, in course,” an- 
swered St. Giles ; “ but I don’t want nothing 
for nothing — I can pay for it.” 

“Oh, to be sure,” said Becky, quickly, “it 
isn’t money ; oh, no, that’s nothing — but it’s 
the character of the house we stand upon. 
Missus says that houses are like Christians, 
and catches bad char6,cters all the same as 
you catch the small-pox or anything of the 
sort from them as have ’em. Thai’s what 
she says, and I dare say it’s all true.” 

St. 'Giles made no answer ; but a deep, 
heart-drawn sigh broke /rom him. Becky 
was turning away, when, touched by the 
sound, she suddenly looked in St. Giles’s 
face — it was on the instant so blankly 
WTetched — so old, so hopeless in its look — - 
the forced smile that had played about it had 
so quickly vanished, that, unknown to her- 
self, with a feeling of compassion and sym- 
pathy, the poor girl caught St. Giles’s hand, 
and with altered voice said — “ I don’t think 
missus has seen you, and as we’re so busy 
to-night, she mayn’t want to look at you; so 
be quiet a little w'hile, and I dare say I can 
get you some nice straw in the barn.” 

“ Thank’ee,” said St. Giles. “ Do, God 
bless you and he pressed the girl’s hand, 
and her simple, kindly heart, was melted by 
the poor fellow’s wretchedness, and with 
twinkling eyes and a smile on her coarse, 
broad, honest face, she left the room. In a 
few minutes the door was opened, and Becky 
with upraised finger stood without. St. 
Giles immediately obe 3 md the signal, and in 
brief time found himself on his way to bed, 
preceded by Becky with a lanthorn ; for the 
moon had gone down, and the night was 
pitchy dark. “ I’ve brought the light,” said 
she, “ for fear of the dog. He killed one 
man, or as good as killed him, for he never 
got over it ; but lie won’t bite nobody when 
he sees ’em with me.’' And the conduct 
of the dog speedily bore out the character 


given of him ; for though, with grinning 
teeth, and a low, snuffling howl, he walked 
round and round St. Giles, Becky — even as 
Una dominated the lion — held Dragon in 
completest subjection. Although she called 
him a brute, a beast, a nasty creature, and 
twenty other names of the like prettiness, 
Dragon with a patient wagging of the tail 
bore them all, his very patience — what a 
lesson for human philosoph}^ ! — turning in- 
vective into compliment. “ Here it is,” said 
Becky, opening the barn-door. “ Here’s 
straw as sweet as any clover ; and there 
isn’t many rats, for they was hunted only a 
month ago. You’re not afeard of rats? 
Bless you, they’re more afeard of Christians 
than Christians should be afeard of them ; 
and so I tells missus : but for all that she 
will squal at ’em. Well, people can’t help 
what they call ’tipathies. As for me, I 
minds rats no more than rabbits. There, 
now, up in that corner ; and if there isn’t a 
sack and all to cover you ! Why, you 
couldn’t sleep better if you was a lord. And 
see here. Here’s a bottle 'Oi^ith some beer, 
and some bread and cheese, when you wake 
in the morning. I’m always hungry when I 
wake in the morning, I am ; no matter what 
time I goes to bed ; but that comes, as I 
say, of having a clear conscience, and doing 
no harm to nobody. There, good night — 
poor soul ! God be with you !” And with 
this simple, earnest wish — this little wish 
that like the circle of the universe holds 
within it all things — did the kind, the gentle 
drudge of a way-side pot-house send the 
convict to his bed. No king was’ ever shown 
to tapestried chamber with truer wishes for 
his rest, than went with St. Giles to his 
straw. “ God be with you,” said the girl ; 
and the words of gentleness, the happy, 
hopeful tone that breathed in them, fell like 
balm upon the felon’s heart ; and in a few 
moments he was sunk in the deep happiness 
of sleep ; he was far away in that neutral 
region of life, where emperors put off their 
crowns — where the arrogance of earth is 
calm and harmless — -where pride and osten- 
tation have not their blatant trumpets blown 
before them — where the purple of Dives is 
cast aside on the same heap with the rags 
of Lazarus — where the equality to all, that 
death shall everlastingly bring, is once a day 
rehearsed by all men — where life is simple 
breathing, and the slave loses the master. 

For many nights had St. Giles slept in 
the open fields. Ragged, and worn, and 
hunger-stricken, he had nevertheless slept ; 
and only when the daylight came felt for a 
time his sinews cramped and stiftened with 
the dews of night. Still with the sky above 
him, no more sheltered than his neighbor 
ox or sheep, he had slept : he had — despite 
of fortune — cheated misery with forgetful- 
ness. Nature for a time had blessed him aa 


62 


THE HISTORY OF 


she had blessed the happiest man. Yet 
sleep had come to him slowly, reluctantly ; 
bodily want and suffering would lor a time 
refuse its sweet oblivion. But here in a 
barn — with fresh, delicious, odorous straw — 
with roof and walls to hold out wind and 
rain — St. Giles composed himself to sleep 
as almost to eternal rest. He was happy — 
profoundly happy that he was lodged, com- 
fortably, as any beast. 

For an hour — ^yes, an hour at least — had 
St. Giles enjoyed the happiness of re.st, 
when he was loudly, roughly awakened, 
“ Hallo ! you vagabond — get up, and answer 
for a murder,” bawled a voice ; and St. 
Giles, leaping to his feet, saw the barn half- 
filled with people, armed with sticks and 
weapons as for some sudden fray. 


CHAPTER XH. 

“ What’s the matter now P’ cried St. 
Giles, pale and aghast ; for instantly he be- 
lieved himself detected ; instantly saw the 
gaol, the gallows, and the hangman. “What’s 
the matter 1” he cried, trembling from head 
to foot. 

“ What’s the matter 1” roar'ed the barber, 
“ only a little bit of murder, that’s all — and 
that’s nothing to chaps like you.” 

Terrible as was the charge, nevertheless 
St. Giles felt himself somewhat relieved : 
he was not, he found, apprehended as the 
escaped convict ; that was yet unknown ; 
and, oddly enough, with the accusation of 
bloodshed on him, he felt comparatively 
tranquil. “ Murder, is it,” he said, “ well, 
who’s murdered 1 And whoever he is, why 
is it to be me who’s killed him — tell me 
thatl” 

“ Hid you ever hear 1” said the barber. 
“ A chap, with rags on him, not fit to scare 
birds in a bean-field, and yet talks like one 
of us ! I should like to know where such 
, as you get crown-pieces.” 

“ Never mind — never mind,” said the host 
of the Lamb and Star, “that’s justice’s 
work — not ours.” 

“ Justice’s work !” exclaimed the hostess 
■ — now pressing foremost of the crowd — 
“ and what will justice do for us 1 When 
justice has hanged the ragamuffin, will jus- 
tice give back the character of the house 1 
Who’ll come to the Lamb and Star, when 
it’s known to harbor cut-throats ? But it’s 
that hussy, Becky ; it’s she that hid the 
murderer here ; it’s she. I’ll be sworn it, 
knows all about the murder, for there isn’t 
such a devil for breaking in the whole 
county.” Such was the emphatic declara- 
tion of the hostess, who, by a kind of logic 


— not altogether uncommon to the sex — 
saw in Becky, the reckless destroyer of pot- 
tery, the consequent accomplice in human 
destruction. The reasoning, it must be con- 
fessed, was of the most violent, the most 
tyrannic kind ; on which account, it was 
somewhat more attractive to Mrs, Blink ; 
guileless, ingenuous soul ! who, in her inno- 
cency, rated her hand-maiden for bestowing 
a homicide in the barn of the Lamb and 
Star ; when, had the matron known aught 
of the moral machinery of life, she ought 
instantly to have doubled Becky’s wages 
for such inestimable service. Mrs. Blink 
ought to have known that to a public-house 
a murderer was far more profitable, to both 
tap and parlor, than a pretty barmaid. She 
ought to have looked upon the Lamb and 
Star as a made hostelry, from the instant it 
should be known that St. Giles, with the 
mark of Cain fresh upon him, changed his 
first blood-begotten dollar there ; that after- 
wards he sought the sweets of sleep in the 
Lamb and Star’s barn. Silly Mrs. Rlink ! 
Why, the very straw pressed by St. Giles 
was precious as though laid upon by Midas. 
To be split and worked into bonnets it was 
worth — what brain shall say how much a 
truss 1 But Mrs. Blink thought not after 
this fashion. She looked upon St. Giles as 
though he had brought so much blood upon 
the house — so many ineffaceable stains of 
shame and ignominy. Foolish woman ! she 
ought rather to have made him her humblest 
curtsey — ought rather to have set her face 
with her sunniest smile, for having given 
the Lamb and Star the preference of his 
infamy. Benighted creature ! she knew not 
the worth of murder to a bar. 

• “ And pray who is murdered!” again ask- 
ed St. Giles, with an effrontery that again 
called up all the virtuous astonishment of 
the host and hostess. “ If I’ve killed any- 
body, can’t you let me know who it is ?” 

“ Yes, yes,” cried the landlord, “ you’re 
just the fellow to brazen it out; but it won’t 
do this time and he then looked knowingly 
at his wife, who was about to express her- 
self on the certainty of St. Giles’s fate, 
when she beheld Becky peeping anxiously 
from the crowd, most shamefully interested, 
as Mrs. Blink conceived, in the prisoner’s 
condition. “ Why, you wicked hussy ! if 
you oughtn’t to be hanged with him,” cried 
the hostess : whereupon Becky immediately 
took to her heels, and was immediately fol- 
lowed by her mistress, whose loud indigna- 
tion at length died a muttering death in the 
distance. Mrs. Blink being gone, there was 
dead silence for a moment ; and then the 
landlord, with a puzzled look, jerking his 
head towards St. Giles, briefly asked coun- 
sel of one and all.— “ What shall we do 
with him ! ’ 

This query produced another pause. 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 63 


Every man seemed to feel as Ihqugh the I 
question was specially put to himself, and 
therefore did his best to prepare to answer 
it. Yes; almost every man scratched his 
head, and suddenly tried to look acute, sharp. 
“What’s to be done wi’unl” asked two or 
three, musingly ; and then looked in each 
other’s faces, as though they looked at a 
dead wall. At length, wisdom descended 
upon the brain of the barber. “I’ll tell you 
what we’ll do with him,” said the small 
oracle of the Lamb and Star, and suddenly 
all looked satisfied, as though the mystery 
was at length discovered, — “I’ll tell you 
what we’ll do with him : we’ll leave him 
where he is.” Everybody nodded assent 
to the happy thought. “ He’ll be just as 
safe here as in the cage ; and that’s a mile 
away. We’ve only got to tie him hand and 
foot, and three or four of us to sit up and 
watch him, and I warrant he doesn’t slip 
through our fingers — I warrant me, varmint 
as he is, we’ll give a good account of him to 
justice.” The barber was rewarded with 
a murmur of applause ; and such approba- 
tion he received all tranquilly, like a man 
accustomed to the sweets of moral incense. 
For St. Giles, he had again cast himself 
hopelessly upon the straw ; again lay, seem- 
ingly indifferent to all around him. In the 
despair, the wretchedness of his condition, 
life or death was, he thought, to him alike. 
On all hands he was a hunted, persecuted 
wretch ; life was to him a miserable dis- 
ease ; a leprosy of soul that made him alone 
in a breathing world. There might be com- 
panionship in the grave. And so dreaming, 
St. Giles lay dumb and motionless as a 
corpse, the while his captors — as they 
thought themselves — took counsel for his 
security. “ Hush !” said the barber, motion- 
ing silence, and then having stood a few 
moments, listening, with upraised finger, he 
cried — “ It’s my belief the rogue’s asleep : 
in that case, we needn’t tie him : we’ve only 
to watch outside : the night’s warm, the 
dog’s loose, and with a mug or so of ale. I’m 
good to watch with any half-dozen of you.” 
The truth is, the barber had been visited by 
a second thought, that suggested to him the 
probability of rough usage at the hands of 
the prisoner, should there be an attempt to 
put him in bonds, and he therefore, with a 
pardonable regard for his own features, pro- 
posed to wave the ceremony of tying the 
culprit. “ He’ll have his share of rope 
in time,” said the barber, much satisfied with 
the smallness of the jest. And thereupon, 
he beckoned his companions from the barn ; 
and IC^id already imagined the balminess ot 
the coming ftle — for the landlord had pro- 
mised flowing mugs — when justice, profes- 
sional justice, arrived in the shape of a sworn 
constable. “ Where s this murdering chap I” 
asked the functionary. 


“ All right. Master Tipps,” said the bar- 
ber, “ all snug ; we’ve got him.” 

“'There’s nothing right, nothing snug, 
without the cuffs,” said the constable, dis- 
playing the irons with much official pride. 
“ tie’s in the barn, there, eh, Master Blink I 
Then I charge you all in the king’s name — 
and this is his staff — to help me.” The land- 
lord, touched by the magic of the adjuration, 
stepped forward with the lantern ; the con- 
stable followed, and was sulkily followed by 
two or three of the party. The barber, 
however, and one or twm of his kidney, 
budged not a foot. “ Isn’t it always so B’ 
he exclaimed, “ if ever a man puts himself 
out of the way, and ventures his precious 
life and limbs, taking up all sorts of varmint 
— if ever he does it, wLy, it’s safe for Mas- 
ter Constable to come down, and take away 
all the honor and glory. I should like to 
know what’s the use of a man feeling savage 
against rogues, if another man’s to have the 
credit of it 1 Now you’ll see how it will 
be, — it’s the way of the wmrld — oh yes ! — 
you’ll see ; — they’ll take this chap, and try 
him, and hang him, — perhaps put him in 
chains and all, and we shall never be so 
much as thanked for it. No, w-e .shall never 
be named in the matter. Well, after this, 
JEblks may murder who they like for me. 
And isn’t it precious late, too ! and will my 
wife believe I’ve been nowhere but here !” 
cried the barber ; and a sudden cloud dark- 
ened his face, and he ran otf like a late 
schoolboy to his task. Poor St. Giles ! he 
knew it not ; but, if revenge w^ere sweet to 
think upon, there was somebody at home 
who would revenge the wn-ongs of the vagrant 
upon the barber. Somebody, w'ho, at deep 
midnight, would scare sleep from his pillow, 
even whilst the feloniously accused snored 
among the straw ! And after this fashion 
may many a wretch take sweet comfort ; — 
if, indeed, revenge be sweet ; and there are 
very respectable folks to whom, in truth, it, 
has very saccharine qualities, Ibr they seem 
to enjoy it as children enjoy sugar-cane ; — 
sweet comfort that, whatever wrong or con- 
tumely may be cast upon him in the light of 
day, there may be somebody, as it would 
seem, especially appointed to chastise the 
evil-doer ; and that, too, in the dead waste 
and middle of the night to drive sleep 
from his eyeballs ; to make him feel a cow- 
ard, a nobody, a nincompoop, in his own 
holland. 

Pleasant is it for the bitter-thinking man, 
who sees a blustering authority — whether 
j grasping a l>eadle’s staff or holding the 
(scales of justice — sometimes to know that 
j there is a louder authority at home, a greater 
j vehemence of reproof, that may make the 
! bully of the day the sleepless culprit of the 
I night ! Was there not Whitlow, beadle of 
the parish of St. Scraggs I What a man- 


64 


THE history of 


beast was Whitlow ! 
an avenging ogre, scatter apple-women ! 
How would he foot little boys, guilty of peg- 
tops and marbles ! How would he puff at a 
beggar ! — pulF like the picture of the north- 
wind in the spelling-book ! What a huge, 
heavy, purple face he had, as though all the 
blood of his body was stagnant in his cheeks I 
And then, when he spoke, would he not 
growl and snuffle like a dog ! How the 
parish would have hated him, but that the 
parish heard there was a Mrs. Whitlow ; a 
small, fragile woman, with a face sharp as a 
penknife, and lips that cut her words like 
scissors ! And what a forlorn wretch was 
Whitlow, whth his head brought once a night 
to the pillow^ ! ^Poor creature! helpless, 
confused ; a huge imbecility, a stranded 
whale! Mrs. Whitlo\\^ talked and talked; 
and there was not an apple-woman but in 
Whitlow’s sufferings was not avenged ; not 
a beggar, that thinking of the beadle at mid- 
night, might not, in his compassion, have 
forgiven the beadle of the day. And in this 
punishment w'e acknowledge a grand, a 
beautiful retribution. A Judge Jeffery s in 
his wig is an abominable tyrant ; yet may 
his victims sometimes smile to think what 
Judge Jeffery s suffers in his night-cap. 

And now’ leave we for awhile St. Giles 
in the official custody of Tipp's, who, proud 
of his handculfs as a chamberlain of his 
wand, suffered not the least opportunity to 
pass without resorting to them. To him 
handcuffs w'ere the grace of life, the only 
security of our social condition. Man, with- 
out the knowledge of handcuffs, would to 
Tipps have been a naked wretch, indeed — 
a poor barbarian, needing the first glimmer 
of civilisation. Had philosophy talked to 
Tipps of the golden chain of necessity, to 
the sense of Tipps the chain wmuld have 
beefi made of handcuffs. Hence, the con- 
stable had thought it his prime duty to hand- 
cuff St. Giles ; and then, he suffered him- 
self to be persuaded to leave the murderer 
in his straw ; the landlord handsomely pro- 
mising the loan of a cart to remove the 
prisoner in the morning. 

Some two miles distant from the Lamb 
and Star, w’here the road turned with a 
sharp angle, there was a deep hollow ; this 
place had been knowm, it may be, to the 
Druids, as the Devil’s Elbow. Throughout 
the world, man has ungraciously given sun- 
dry ugly spots of the earth’s face — its w'arts 
and pock-marks — to the fiend ; and the 
liberal dwellers of Kent had, as we say, 
made over an abrupt break-neck corner of 
earth to the Devil for his Elbow. It was at 
this spot that, whilst St. Giles was sw’allow’- 
ing ale at the Lamb and Star, his supposed 
victim, the handsome, generous St. James, 
was discovered prostrate, stunned, and 
wounded. Rumor had, of course, taken his 


wound, as from some mortal instrumenl. 
some dull w’eapon, as the law has it, on his 
temple, looked more than large enough for 
ife 10 escape from. Happily for St. James, 
there were men in Kent who lived not a life 
of reverence for the law ; otherwise, it is 
more than probable that, undiscovered until 
the morning, the Devil’s Elbow might have 
Deen haunted by another ghost. But it w’as 
to be otherwise. It w’as provided by fate 
that there should be half-a-dozen smugglers, 
Dound on an unhallowed mission to the 
“coast; who, first observing St. James’s 
horse, masterless and quietly grazing at the 
road’s side, made closer search, and thence 
discovered young St. James, as they at first 
believed, killed, and lying half-way down 
the hollow. “ Here’s been rough work,” 
cried one of thp men ; “ see, the old, wicked 
story — blood flowing, and pockets inside out. 
He’s a fine lad ; too fine for such a death.” 
“ All’s one for that,” said a second ; we 
can’t bring him to life by staring at him : 
we’ve queer wmrk enough of our own on 
hand — every one for his own business. 
Come along.” “ He’s alive !” exclaimed a 
third, with an oath ; and as he spoke, St. 
James drew a long, deep sigh. “ All the 
better for him,” cried the second, “ then he 
can take care of himself.” “ Why, Jack 
Bilson, you’d never be such a hard-hearted 
chap as to leave anything with life in it, in 
this fashion 1” w'as the remonstrance of the 
first discoverer of St. James ; whereupon 
Mr. Bilson, with a worldliness of prudence, 
sometimes worth uncounted gold to the 
possessor, remarked that humanity was very 
^kvell — but that everybody was made for 
everybody’s self — and that while they were 
palavering there over nobody knew who, 
they might lose the running of the tubs. 
Humanity, as Mr. Bilson said, w’as very 
well ; but then there was a breeches pocket 
virtue in smuggled Scheidam. “ Well, if 1 
was to leave a fellow-cretur in this plight, 1 
should never have the impudence to hope to 
have a bit of luck again,” said the more 
compassionate contrabandist, whose nice 
superstition came in aid to his benevolence; 
“ and so I say, mates, let us carry him to 
that house yonder, make ’em take him in, 
and then go with light hearts and clean con- 
sciences upon our business.” “Yes; if we 
ain’t all taken up for robbers and murderers 
for our pains : but, Ben Magsby, you always 
was a obstinate grampus.” And Ben Mags- 
by carried out his humane purpose ; for St. 
James was immediately borne to the house 
aloresaid. Loud and long was the knocking 
at the door, ere it was opened. At length, 
a little sharp-faced old woman appeared, 


How would he. like j life ; making with easiest despatch St. Giles 
a murderer ; for being an outcast and a 
aeggar, how' facile was the transformation ! 
But St. James was not dead ; albeit a deep 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


65 


and, with wonderful serenity, begged to 
know what w'as the matter. “ Why, here’s 
a gentleman,” said Magsby, “ who’s been 
altogether robbed and well-nigh murdered.” 

“ Robbed and murdered !” said the matron, 
calmly as though she spoke of a pie over- 
baked, or a joint over-roasted, — “ robbed and 
murdered ! What’s that to us ? The pub- 
lic-house is the place for such things. Go 
to fhe Lamb and Star.” But the woman 
spoke-'to heedless ears : for Ben Magsby and 
his mates — ere the woman had ceased her 
counsel — had borne ttie wounded man across 
the threshold, and unceremoniously entering 
tlie first discoverable apartment, had laid him 
on a couch. 

‘‘ There,” said Ben, returning with his 
companions to the door, there, we’ve done 
our duty as Christians, mind you do your’s.” 
And with this admonition, the smugglers 
vanished. 

It was then that the little old woman show- 
ed signs of emotion. Murder and robbery 
at the public-house she could have contem- 
plated with becoming composure ; but to be 
under the same roof with the horror was not 
to be quietly endured so long as she had 
lungs ; and so thinking, she stood in the hall, 
and vehemently screamed. Like boatswain’s 
whistle did that feminine summons pierce 
every corner of the mansion : the cupboard 
mouse paused over stolen cheese — the hearth 
cricket suddenly was dumb — the deathwatch 
in the wall ceased its amorous tick-tick — so 
sudden, sharp, and all-pervading was that 
old woman’s scream. “ Why, Dorothy ! is 
that you?” exclaimed a matronly gentle- 
woman, hastening down stairs, and followed 
by a young lady of apparently some three or 
four and twenty. “ Is it possible ? Why, 
what’s the matter?” 

“ Nothing at all, ma’am — nothing,” said 
Dorothy, suddenly relapsing into her custom- 
ary apathy ; for sooth to say, she was a sort 
of vegetable woman ; a drowsy, dreamy per- 
son, whose performance of such a scream 
was considered by its hearers as a most 
wondrous manifestation of power. Nobody, 
to have looked at Dorothy Vale, would have 
thought that within her dwelt such a scream 
in fosse; but, sometimes, great is the mys- 
tery of little old women. “Nothing at all, 
ma’am — that is, don’t be frightened — that is, 
they say, ma’am, murder and robbery.” 

“ Heavens ! Where — where ?” exclaimed 
the young lady. 

“ it isn’t your dear husband, ma’am — oh, 
no, it isn’t master, so don’t be frightened,” 
said the tranquil Dorothy. “ But if you 
please, ma’am, it’s in that room — I mean the 
body, ma’am.” 

The young lady, for a moment, shrank 
back in terror ; and then, as though reprov- 
ing herself for the weakness, she rapidly 
passed into the room, followed by her elder 
5 


companion. At the same instant, the wound- 
ed man had half-risen from the couch, and 
was looking wanderingly around him — 

“ Clarissa ! Can it be ?” he cried, and again 
swooning, fell back. Instantly, the girl was 
on her knees at his side ; unconscious of the 
reproving, the astonished looks of the mat- 
ron. 

“ He’s dying — oh, Mrs. Wilton, he is dy- 
ing ! Murdered — I know it all — 1 see it all 
— and for me — wretch that I am — for me,” 
and her form writhed with anguish, and she 
burst into an agony of tears. 

“ Oh, no — the hurt is not m.ortal ; be as- 
sured, I am surgeon enough to know that ; 
be assured of it, Mrs. Snipeton thus spoke 
Mrs. Wilton, in words of coldest comfort, 
and with a manner strangely frozen. “ Doro- 
thy, stay you with your mistress, whilst I 
send for assistance, and seek what remedies 
I can myself. I will return instantly : mean- 
while, I say, remain with your mistress.” 

And St. James, unconscious of the hospi- 
tality, was the guest of Mr. Ebenezer Snipe- 
ton — whose character, the reader may re- 
member, was somewhat abruptly discussed 
by the stranger horseman in the past chapter. 
It was here, at Dovesnest, that the thrifty 
money-seller kept his young wife close — far 
away, and safe, as he thought, from the bold 
compliments, the reckless gallantry of the 
rich young men who, in their frequent time 
of need, paid visits to the friend who, the 
security certain as the hour, never failed to 
assist them. Mr. Snipeton was not, in the 
ordinary matters of life, a man who under- 
rated his own advantages, moral and physi- 
cal. Sooth to say, he was, at times, not un- 
apt to set what detraction might have thought 
an interested value on them. And yet, what 
a touchstone for true humility in man, is 
woman ! Ebenezer Snipeton, in all worldly 
dealings, held himself a match for any of the 
money-coining sons of Adam. He could 
fence with a guinea — and sure we are guinea- 
fencing is a far more delicate art ; is an ex- 
ercise demanding a finer touch, a readier 
sleight, than the mere twisting of steel foils ; 
— he could fence, nay, with even the smallest 
current coin of the realm, and — no matter 
who stood against him — come off conqueror. 
“Gold,” says Shelley, “is the old man’s 
sword.” And most wickedly, at times, will 
hoary- bearded men, with blood as cold and 
thin as water in their veins, hack and slash 
with it ! They know — the grim, palsied 
warriors ! how the weapon will cut heart- 
strings ; they know what wounds it will in- 
fiict ; but then, the wounds bleed inwai'dly : 
there is no outward and visible hurt to call 
for the coroner ; and so the victim may die, 
and show, as gossips have it, a very hand- 
some corpse, whilst homicidal avarice with 
no drop of outward gore upon his hands — no 
damning spots seen by the world’s naked 


66 


THE HISTORY OF 


eye — mixes in the world, a very respectable 
old gentleman ; a man who has a file of re- 
ceipts to show for everything ; a man who 
never did owe a shilling ; and above all, a 
man who takes all the good he gets as noth- 
ing more than a proper payment for his ex- 
ceeding respectability. He is a pattern man ; 
and for such men heaven rains manna ; only 
in these days the shower comes down in gold. 

Ebenezer Snipeton, we say, had a high 
and therefore marketable opinion of himself; 
for the larger the man’s self-esteem the surer 
is he of putting it oflf in the world’s mart. 
The small dealer in conceit may wait from 
the opening to the closing of the market, and 
not a soul shall carry away his little penni- 
worth : now the large holder is certain of a 
quick demand for all his stock. Men are 
taken by its extent, and close with him im- 
mediately. If, reader, you wanted to buy 
one single egg, would you purchase that one 
egg of the poor, rascal dealer, who had only 
one egg to sell ? Answer us, truly. Behold 
the modest tradesman. He stands shrink- 
ingly, with one leg drawn up, and his ten 
fingers interlaced lackadaisically, the while 
his soul, in its more than maiden bashfulness, 
would retreat, get away, escape anyhow from 
its consciousness. And so he stands, all but 
hopeless behind his one egg. He feels a 
blush crawl over his face^ — for there are 
blushes that do crawl — as you pass by him, 
for pass him you do. It is true you want 
but one egg ; nevertheless, to bring only one 
egg to market shows a misery, a meanness 
in the man, that in the generous heat of your 
heart’s-blood, you most manfully despise. 
And, therefore, you straddle on to the trades- 
man who stands behind a little mountain of 
eggs; and timidly asking for one — it is so 
very poor, so wretched a bit of huckstering, 
you are ashamed to be seen at it — you take 
the first egg offered you, and humbly laying 
down your halfpenny farthing, vanish straight 
away ! As it is with eggs, so in the world- 
market, is it with human pretensions. The 
man with a small, single conceit is shunned, 
a silly, miserable fellow ; but the brave, 
wholesale-dealer — the man of a thousand 
pretensions, is beset by buyers. Now, Ebe- 
nezer was one of your merchants of ten 
thousand eggs — and though to others they 
had proved addled, they had nevertheless 
been gold to him. And yet, did Ebenezer’s 
wife — his ripe, red-lipped spouse of two-and- 
twenty — somehow touch her husband with a 
strange, a painful humility. He had sixty 
iron winters — and every one of them plain as 
an iron bar — in his face. Time had used 
his visage as Robinson Crusoe used his 
wooden calendar, notching every day in it. 
And what was worse, though Time had 
kept an honest account — and what, indeed, 
80 honest, so terribly honest as Time? — 
nevertheless, he had so marked the counten- 


I ance — it is a shabb)’^, shameless trick Time 
has with some faces — that every mark to the 
thoughtless eye counted \yell-nigh double. 
And Snipeton knew this. He knew, too, 
that upon his nose — half-way, like sentinel 
on the middle of a bridge — there was a wart 
very much bigger than a pea, with bristles 
sticking like black pins in it. Now, this 
wart Ebenezer in his bachelor days had 
thought of like a philosopher ; that is, he had 
never thought about it. Nay, his honey- 
moon had almost waned into the cold, real 
moon that was ever after to blink upon his 
marriage life, ere Ebenezer thought of his 
wrinkled, pouch-like cheeks ; of his more 
terrible wart. And then did every bristle 
burn in it, as though it was turned to red hot 
wire : then was he plagued, tormented by the 
thought of the wart, as by some avenging 
imp. He seemed to have become all wart : 
to be one unsightly excrescence. The pau- 
per world envied the happiness of Ebenezer 
Snipeton — with such wealth, with such a 
wife, oh, what a blessed man ! But the 
world knew not the torments of the wart ! 
And wherefore was Ebenezer thus suddenly 
mortified ? We have said, he had taken a 
wife as young and fresh, and beautiful as 
spring. And therefore, after a short season, 
was Ebenezer in misery. He looked at his 
wife’s beauty, and then he thought of his 
withered face — that felon wart ! In her very 
loveliness — like a satyr drinking at a crystal 
fount — he saw his own deformity. Was it 
possible she could love him ? The self-put 
question — and he could not but ask it — with 
her, alone, in bed, at board — that tormenting 
question still would whisper, snake-voiced in 
his ear, — could she love him ? And his 
heart — his heart that heretofore had been 
cold and blooded like a fish — would shrink 
and tremble, and dare not answer. True it 
was, she was obedient ; too obedient. She 
did his bidding promptly, humbly, as though 
he had bought her for his slave. And so, in 
truth, he had : and there had been a grave 
man of the church, grave witnesses, too, to 
bind the bargain. Verily, he had bought 
her ; and on her small white finger — it was 
plain to all who saw her — she wore the man- 
acle of her purchaser. 

And Ebenezer, as his doubt grew stronger 
— as the memory of his outside ugliness be- 
came to him a daily spectre — resolved to 
hide this human ware, this pretty chattel of 
flesh and blood, far away in rustic scenes. 
And therefore bought he a secluded house, 
half-buried amid gloomy trees — cypress and 
dead man’s yew — and this house, in the imp- 
like playfulness of his soul, he called Doves- 
nest. That it should be so very near the 
Devil’s Elbow was of no matter to Ebenezer ; 
nay, there was something quaint, odd, fan- 
tastic in the contrast : a grim humor that a 
little tickled him. 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


67 


And thus, reader, have we at an important 
moment — if this small toy of a history may 
be allowed to have important moments — thus 
have we paused to sketch the owner of 
Dovesnest ; to digress on his bachelor confi- 
dence, and his married modesty ; to speak of 
his love, and of the demon ugliness — the 
wrinkles and the ever-burning wart — that 
perplexed it. All this delay, we know, is a 
gross misdemeanor committed on the reader 
of romance ; who, when two lovers meet in 
misery and peril, has all his heart and under- 
standing for them alone ; and cares not that 
the writer — their honored parent, be it re- 
membered — should walk out upon the fools- 
cap, and without ever so much as asking 
permission, begin balancing some peacock’s 
feather on his nose ; talking the while of the 
deep Argus’ eye — purple and green and gold, 
glowing at the end of it ; if, indeed, it be an 
Argus’ eye. For ourselves, we doubt the 
truth of the transformation. We see in the 
story nothing but a wicked parable, reflecting 
most ungraciously on the meekness and 
modesty of the last-made sex ; the straitened 
rib. Juno, we are told, when she had killed 
Argus, took the poor fellow’s eyes and fixed 
them for ev6r and for ever on her peacock’s 
tail. Now, what is most unseemingly sha- 
dowed forth in this ? Why, a mean, most 
pusillanimos insinuation that when a woman 
wears a most beautiful gown, she desires 
that the eyes of all the world may hang upon 
it. This we take to be the meaning of — but 
we are balancing the feather again ; and here 
is poor St. James bleeding on the couch 
whilst — stony-hearted theorists that we are ! 
— we are talking of peacocks. And yet, 
there is much human bleeding going on in 
the world, the hemorrhage altogether disre- 
garded in a foolish consideration of the 
world’s peacocks. We do not sin alone. 
There is great comfort that we have large 
fellowship in our iniquity. 

And now to return to St. James; although, 
be it understood, we make no promise not 
again to balance the feather. Certainly not : 
we may do it again, and again, and again. 
And for the reader, why, if he wants a tale 
of situation — that is, a story wherein people 
are brought bodily together, sometimes that 
they may only knock one another down, and 
then separate — why, in such case, the reader 
had better drop the book like a dead thing, 
and wait philosophically for the panto- 
mimes. 

Mrs. Snipeton — (such w^as the name 
which, among the other wTongs, Ebenezer, 
the money-merchant, had committed upon 
the young and beautiful creature who knelt 
at the side of St. James) — Mrs, Snipeton— 
no ; it will not do. We will not meddle with 
the ugly gift of her husband : we will rather 
own an obligation to her godfathers and god- 
' mothers. 


Clarissa — (now W'e shall get on) — Clarissa 
still knelt at the side of St. James ; and even 
Mrs. Dorothy Vale marvelled at the white- 
ness of her mistress’s cheek — at the big tears 
that rolled from her upraised eyes — whilst 
her lips moved as though in passionate prayer. 
“God bless me !” said Mrs. Vale, “ I don’t 
think the young man’s dead, but — oh, the 
goodness ! what a pretty couch his wound 
will make ! Ha ! people have no thought, 
or they’d , have taken him into the kitchen. 
He’ll be worse than five pound to that couch 
if a groat. You can get out anything but 
blood,” said Mrs. Vale, with an evident dis- 
gust at the ineffaceable ffuid. “If it had 
been wine, I shouldn’t have cared. 

“ He’s dying ! He’s murdered — his blood 
is on my head !” cried Clarissa, as Mrs. Wil- 
ton returned to the room. 

“ Be tranquil ; pray be calm,” said Mrs. 
Wilton, in a tone of something like command 
that, but for the misery of the moment, could 
not have escaped Clarissa; for Mrs. Wilton 
was only housekeeper at Dovesnest. “ He 
will be well — quite well. 1 have despatched 
Nicholas for the surgeon ; though I think I 
have skill sufficient to save the fee.” And 
this she said in so hopeful a tone, that Clar- 
issa languidly smiled at the encouragement. 
“ You will leave the gentleman with me and 
Dorothy. We will sit up with him,” 

“ No,” said Clarissa, with a calm determi- 
nation, seating herself nearjthe wounded 
man. “ No.” 

“ Mrs. Snipeton !” cried the housekeeper, 
in a tone of mixed remonstrance and re- 
proach. 

“ My husband being absent, it is my duty 
— yes, my duty” — repeated Clarissa, “ to at- 
tend to the hospitality of his house.” 

“ Hospitality,” repeated Mrs. Wilton ; and 
her cold, yet anxious eye glanced at Clarissa, 
who, slightly frowning, repelled the look. 
“ As you will, Mrs. Snipeton — as you will, 
Mrs. Snipeton,” and the housekeeper gave 
an emphasis to the conjugal name that made 
its bearer wince as at a sudden pain. “ There 
is no danger now, I am sure,” she continued, 
washing the wound, whilst the sufferer every 
moment breathed more freely. At length, 
consciousness returned. He knew the face 
that looked with such earnest pity on him. 

“ Clarissa — Clarissa !” cried St. James. 

“ Be silent — you must be silent,” said Mrs. 
Wilton, with somewhat more than the au- 
thority of a nurse. “ You must not speak — 
indeed, you must not — you are hurt, greatly 
hurt — and for your own sake — for more than 
your own sake” — and the lips of the speaker 
trembled and grew pale — “ yes, for more 
than your own sake, you must be silent.” 

“All will be well, sir,” said Clarissa; 
“ trust me, you are in careful hands. The 
doctor will be here, and — ” 

“ Nay, I need none, fair lady,” answered 


68 


THE HISTORY OF 


St. James; “for I am already in careful 
hands. Indeed, I know it — feel it.” 

“Oh. you must be silent — indeed, you 
must,” urged Mrs. Wilton, imperatively ; and 
then she added in a voice of sorrow, and with 
a most troubled look, — “ otherwise you know 
not the danger — the misery that may befal 
you. Mrs. Snipeton,” and again she turned, 
with anxious face towards Clarissa, “ Dorothy 
and I can watch.” 

Clarissa made no answer; but gravely 
bowed her head. Mrs. Wilton, suppressing 
a sigh, spoke no further; but busied herself 
with her patient’s wound, whilst Clarissa and 
St. James mutely interchanged looks that — 
although they heeded it not — went to the 
heart of the saddened housekeeper. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The hall clock had struck five. The 
beauty of a spring morning was upon the 
earth. The sun shone into the sick man’s 
room ; green leaves rustled at his window ; 
and a robin, perched on the topmost branch 
of a tall holly, sang a song of thankful glad- 
ness to the world. Clarissa, who had watch- 
ed all night, walked in the garden. How 
fresh and full of hope was all around her ; 
how the very heart of the earth seemed to 
beat with the new life of spring ! And she, 
who was made to sympathise with all that 
was beautiful — she, who was formed to dwell 
on this earth as in a solemn place, seeing in 
even its meanest things adornments of a holy 
temple ; vessels sacred to the service of 
glorifying nature ; — to her, in that hour, all 
around was but a painted scene ; an unreal 
tiling that with its mockery pained her 
wearied heart ; yearning as it did for what 
lay beyond. Who could have thought — who 
had seen that beautiful creature — that she 
walked with death ? And yet, with no eyes, 
no ears, for the lovely sights and sounds 
about her, she walked and talked with the 
great Comforter. Her look was solemn, too, 
as though caught from her companion: Her 
eye was full and clear ; and now gleaming 
strangely as with the light of another world. 
And now she would press her forehead with 
her small thin hand, as though to sooth its 
misery; and now she would look clouded and 
perplexed ; and now, so sweet a smile of 
patience would break into her face, that it 
was to wrong her nobleness to pity her. 
And still — as we have said — she talked with 
death. 

St. James lay in a deep sleep. For a few 
moments he had been left alone — his door 
unclosed. With soft, but sudden step, a man 
entered the apartment. It was Ebenezer 


Snipeton. He had slept half-way on his 
journey from London ; and rising early, had 
ridden hard that he might surprise his soli- 
tary wife with a husband’s smiles at break- 
fast. The morning was so beautiful that its 
spirit had entered even the heart of Ebene- 
zer ; and so, he had ridden, for him, very 
gaily along. Yes; he was touched by the 
season. He felt — or thought* he felt — that 
there was something under the blue sky, 
something almost as good as ready gold. He 
looked with a favorable eye upon the prim- 
roses that lighted up the hedge-sides, and 
thought them really pretty: thought that, 
when all was said, there might really be 
some use in flowers. Once, too, he checked 
his horse into a slow walk, that he might 
listen to a lark that sang above him, and with 
its gushing melody made the sweet air throb. 
He smiled, too, grimly smiled, at the grave 
cunning of two magpies that, alighted from 
a tall elm, walked in the road, talking — 
though with unslit tongues — of their family’s 
affairs ; of where best to provide worms for 
their little ones ; of their plumage, sprouting 
daily; of the time when they would fly 
alone ; and of other matters, perhaps, too 
familiar to the reader, if he be parental. 
And Ebenezer thought nothing was so beau- 
tiful as the country ; as, in truth, other men 
like Ebenezer may have thought at four or 
five in the morning: but then as ’Change 
hours approach, the romance fades with the 
early mist; and at '10, a. m., the Arcadian 
somehow finds himself the scrivener. Thus, 
too, the early rising man of law — suburban 
lodged — may before breakfast feel his heart 
leap with the lambkins ;in the mead. ’ But 
breakfast swallowed, he journeys with un- 
abated zeal, inexorable to the parchment. 

And Ebenezer, as he rode, determined 
henceforth to look on everything with smiling 
eyes. Yes : he had before always looked at 
the wrong side of the tapestry. He would 
henceforth amend such unprofitable business. 
He had all to make man happy ; wealth, a 
lovely wife, and no gout. To be sure, there 
were a few things of former times that — ^well, 
he would hope there was time enough to 
think of them. Of them, when the time 
came, he would repent ; and that, too, most 
vehemently. And so Ebenezer forgot his 
wrinkled face ; almost forgot the wart upon 
his nose. And Clarissa loved him ? Of 
course. It was not her nature to be impetu- 
ous : no ; she was mild and nun-like ; he 
had chosen her for those rare qualities, but 
she loved him as a meek and modest gentle- 
woman ought to love her husband. This 
sweet conviction brought Ebenezer to his 
court-yard door. It was open. Well, there 
was nothing strange in that. Nicholas, of 
course, was up ; and yet — where was he ? 
Ebenezer’s heart seemed to fall fathoms ; to 
drop in his body, like a plummet. In a mo- 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


69 


ment, the earth was disenchanted. There, I 
before the eyes of Ebenezer, stood Ebenezer 
withered, with the bristled wart bigger than 
ever upon his nose ; in his sudden despair, 
he saw his bad gifts magnified. And there 
was something, too, about the house that 
looked strange, suspicious. The windows 
seemed to leer at him. The old house-dog 
crawled tow^ards him, with no wag in his 
tail. The sparrow's chirped mockingly. The 
house now looked as though it held a corpse 
" — and now, as though deserted. Ebenezer 
held his breath and listened. He heard no- 
thing — nothing. And now, far, far away, 
from a thick, night-dark wood, the cuckoo 
shouted. Ebenezer passed into the court- 
yard, and entered his silent house. In a few 
moments he stood beside the couch of the 
sleeping St. James. 

A terrible darkness fell upon the old man’s 
face as he gazed at the sleeper. A tumult 
and agony of heart was raging within him, 
and he shook like a reed. Still he was 
silent ; silent and struggling to master the 
fury that possessed him. He breathed heavi- 
ly ; and then seated himself in a chair, and 
still with the eyes of a ghost looked on the 
sleeper. Devilish thoughts passed through 
the old man’s brain: murder whispered in 
his ear, and still he fiercely smiled and list- 
ened. With his five fingers he could do it — 
strangle the disturber in his sleep. And the 
old man looked at his hands and chuckled. 
And now there is a quick step in the pas- 
sage ; and now, Clarissa enters the apart- 
ment. 

“Dear sir! husband,” at length she ut- 
tered. 

Suddenly standing statue-like, the old man 
with pointing figure, and fierce, accusing 
face, asked, “Who is this f’ 

Ere Clarissa could answer, hasty feet were 
heard in the hall, and Mrs. Wilton entered 
the room ; followed by a thick-set man ; with 
a red, round, oily face, and his hair matted 
with stale powder. He was dressed in a 
very browm black coat, that scarcely looked 
made for him ; with buckskin breeches and 
high riding boots. Under one arm he carried 
a thick-thonged whip ; and in his right hand, 
prominently held forth, as challenging the 
eyes of all men, a rusty beaver. “ Couldn’t 
come before — very sorry, but it always is so : 
those paupers — I’m sure of it, it’s like ’em — 
they always do it on purpose. It’s a part of 
the wicked obstinacy of the poor ; and I don’t 
know, sir, whether you’ve observed it ; but 
the poor are always obstinate — it’s in ’em 
from the beginning. I’ve not brought so 
many into the world — the more my ill-luck: — 
without knowing their wickedness from the 
first.” Thus spoke, in high, brassy voice, 
Mr. Ralph Crossbone — unconsciously flatter- 
ed by the poor as Doctor Crossbone — parish 
doctor ; who, when sought for at his house 


by Nicholas, was four miles away — summon- 
ed to assist the introduction of another pau- 
per baby into this over-stocked, and therefore 
pauperised planet. What Mercury, Venus, 
and other respectable planets must think of 
this our reckless, disreputable mother earth, 
this workhouse planet, the shame and re- 
proach of all better systems' — it is not for a 
son of earth to say. But, surely, if Mercury, 
Venus, and others know anything of our go- 
ings on, they must now and then look down 
upon us with inefikceable scorn : at least, 
they ought. And yet, they do not ; but with 
all our sins and all our foolishness, still look 
upon us, with eyes of love and tenderness. 

The voice of Crossbone immediately 
awakened the patient. Crossbone had, how- 
ever, in his time, sent so many patients to 
sleep, that he might fairly be permitted occa- 
sionally to disturb a slumberer. St. James, 
observing Snipeton, rose up hastily, and with 
his blood burning in his face, was about to 
speak. 

“You must bo quiet, sir. Mrs. Wilton 
has told me all that a mere woman can know 
of your case, and — I am sorry to say it to 
you, sir” — and here Crossbone shook his 
head, and heaved a laborious sigh — “I’m 
sorry to say it, you must be very quiet.” 

“ But, Mr. Snipeton,” cried St. James, 
“permit me even now to explain — ” 

“ The doctor says, no,” answered Snipe- 
ton, and his lip curled, “ you must be quiet. 
There will be time for us to talk, when your 
wounds fire healed. For the present, we 
will leave you with your surgeon.” And 
Snipeton, looking command at his wife, quit- 
ted the room, followed by his obedient, tremb- 
ling helpmate. 

“Pwegb!” cried Crossbone, possessing 
himself of his patient’s wrist, “ a race-horse 
pulse ; a mile a minute. Fever, very high. 
Let me look at your tongue, sir; don’t laugh, 
sir — pray don’t laugh” — for St. James was 
already tittering at the solemnity of Cross- 
bone — “ a doctor is very often the last man 
to be laughed at.” 

“ That’s true, indeed : I never before felt 
the Ibrce of that truth,” said St. Jame^. 

“ Your tongue, sir, if you please ?V St. 
James, mastering his mirth, displayed that 
organ. 

“Ha! Humph! Tongue like a chalk- 
pit. This, sir,” and here Crossbone instinc- 
tively thrust both his hands into his pockets, 
“ this will be a long bout, sir — a very long 
bout.” 

“ I think not — I feel not,” said St. James, 
smiling. “ ’Tis nothing — a mere nothing.” 

“ Ha, sir !” cried Crossbone. “ ’Tis pleas- 
ant — droll, sometimes — to hear what people 
call nothing; and in a few days, they’re 
gone, sir; entirely gone. But I’ll not alarm 
you — I have had worse cases ; yes, I think I 
may say worse cases — nevertheless, sir, a 


70 


THE HISTORY OP 


man with a hole in his skull, such a hole as 
'hat” — and here Crossbone tightly closed 
lis eyelids, and gave a sharp, short shake of 
;he head — “ but I’ll not alarm you. Still, sir, 
f you’ve any little affairs to make straight — 
here’s a jewel of a lawyer only five miles 
)ff*, the prettiest hand at a will — ” 

“ I’ll not trouble him this bout, doctor,” 
said St. James, who saw as clearly into 
Crossbone, as though, like Momus’ man, he 
wore a pane of the best plate glass in his 
bosom. “ I have every faith in you.” 

“Sir, the confidence is flattering: and I 
think between us, we may cheat the worms. 
Nevertheless, it’s an ugly blow — the eighth 
)f an inch more to the right or left, and — ” 

“ I know what you would say,” cried St. 
ames. “ Blows are generally dealt after 
hat fashion ; there’s a great providence in 
jm. The faculty are often much indebted 
3 the eighth of an inch, more or less.” 
“You must not talk, sir: indeed, you 
lust not, delighted as otherwise I should be 
) hear you. Yes': now 1 see the whole of 
le mischief : now I am thoroughly possessed 
f the matter,” and Crossbone looked with 
1 air of considerable satisfaction at the 
ound. “ ’Twill be a tedious, but a beauti- 
d case. Pray, sir, should you know the 
iffian who has nearly deprived the world of 
hat I am sure will be — with a blessing on 
y poor assistance” — and here Crossbone 
»ftly closed his hands and bowed — “ one of 
! noblest ornaments ? Should you know 
e wretch ?” 

“I don’t know — perhaps — I can’t say,” 
iswered St. James, carelessly. 

“ When you see him, no doubt ? And I 
a delighted to inform you the villain is 
cured. With the blessing of justice he’ll 
f hanged ; which will be a great consolation 
all the neighborhood. Yes; I heard it 
I, as I came along. The ruffian, with your 
lood upon his hands, was taken at the Lamb 
nd Star — taken with a purse of gold in his 
)Ocket. His execution will be a holiday for 
he whole county and Crossbone spoke as 
of a coming jubilee, 

“ Taken, is he ?” cried St. James, with a 
vexed look. “ Humph ! I’m sorry for it. 
Come, doctor, [ must leave this to-day. My 
hurt is but a trifle ; but I can feel, appreciate 
your professional tenderness. I must make 
towards London this very morning.” 

“ Humph! Well, sir, we’ll tafk about it; 
we’ll see what’s to be done,” said Crossbone, 
with sudden melancholy at the resolute man- 
ler of his head-strong patient. “ Neverthe- 
ess, you must let me dress your wound, — 
ind take a little matter that I’ll make up for 
'ou, and then — \Ve shall sec.” Hereupon, 
>t. James placidly resigned himself to the 
ands of Crossbone, who very leisurely drest 
U4U wound, again and again declaring that 
the patient was only on this side of the grave 


by the eighth of an inch. There never had 
been a skull so curiously broken. At length. 
Crossbone took his leave of the sufferer, with 
the benevolent assurance that he would make 
up something nice for him ; of which the 
patient silently determined not to swallow a 
drop. 

“Well, doctor?” asked Snipeton, with a 
savage leer, as Crossbone passed into the 
hall, — “how is his Lordship now?” 

“ Lordship !” exclaimed Crossbone, now 
looking wonderment, and now smirking — “ is 
he really a lord ? Bless me 1” ' 

“How is he, man?” cried Snipeton, 
fiercely. 

“ Hush ! Mr. Snipeton — hush, we can’t 
talk here ; for I’ve a great responsibility — I 
feel it, a great responsibility — hush, my dear 
sir — hush !” and Crossbone trod silently as 
though he walked on felt, and lifting his 
finger with an air of professional command, 
he led Snipeton into an adjoining apartment, 
where sat Clarissa, pale and motionless. 
Here Snipeton e:^pected an answer to his 
question ; but Crossbone, raising his eyes 
and his closed hands — a favorite gesture with 
him when deeply moved — only said, “and 
he is a lord !” 

“ Well, lords die, don’t they ?” asked 
Snipeton, with a sneer. 

“ Why,” — Crossbone unconsciously hesi- 
tated — “ Yes. And, between ourselves, Mr. 
Snipeton — I can speak confidently on the 
matter, having the gentleman in my hands, 
he is” — Crossbone gave a knell-like emphasis 
to every syllable — “ he is in very great , 
danger.” 

“ Indeed !” cried old Snipeton, and a smile 
lighted up his withered face — and he looked 
intently at his wifq, as her hand unconsciously 
grasped her chair. “ Indeed !” said the old 
man, very blithely. 

“ Your pardon, for a minute, my good sir,” 
said the apothecary, “ I’ll just send this to' 
my assistant — your man Nicholas must 
mount and gallop — for there’s a life, a very 
dear life to the country no doubt, depending 
on it.” And Crossbone proceeded to write 
his sentence in his best quack Latin. 

Clarissa felt that her husband’s eye was 
upon her; yet sat she statue-like, with a 
terrible calmness in her pale face. The old 
man, his heart stung by scorpion jealousy, 
gazed on her with savage satisfaction. And 
she knew this ; and still was calm, tranquil 
as stone, She felt the hate that fed upon 
her misery, yet shrank not from its tooth. 

“Mrs. Wilton,” said Crossbone, as the 
housekeeper timidly entered the room, “you’ll 
give this to Nicholas — tell him to gallop with 
it to my assistant — Mr. Sims ; and, above 
all, let him take care of the medicine — for 
there’s life and death — a lord’s life and death 
in it,” said the doctor, unconscious of the 
probable truth he uttered. 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


71 


“ And his lordship,” said old Snipeton, 
gently rubblpg his hands, “ his lordship is in 
very great danger ?” 

“ The fact is, Mr. Snipeton, there are men 
— I blush to say it, who belong to our glori- 
ous profession — there are men who always 
magnify a case that they may magnify their 
own small abilities, their next-to-nothing 
talent, in the treatment of it. I need not say 
that Peter Crossbone is not such a man. 
But this, sir, I will say, that every week of 
my life, I do such things here in the country 
— hedge-side practice, sir, nothing more ; 
hedge-side practice ; — such things that if any 
one of ’em was done in London, that one 
would lift me into my carriage, and give me 
a cane with ten pounds’ worth of virgin gold 
upon it. But, sir, no man can cultivate a 
reputation among paupers. It’s no matter 
what cure you make ; they’re thought things 
of course ; paupers are known to stand any- 
thing. Why, there was a case of hip-joint I 
had — there never was so sweet a case. If 
that hip-joint had been a lord’s, as I say, I 
ought to have stepped from it into my c?ir- 
riage ; but it was a cow-boy’s, sir ; a wretch- 
ed cow-boy’s ; a lad very evilly-disposed — 
very : he’ll be hanged, I’ve no doubt,- 7 -and, 
sir, isn’t it a dreadful thing to consider, that 
a man's genius — a case like that — should go 
to the gallows, and never be heard of ? I 
put it to you, sir, isn’t it dreadful ?” 

Snipeton grunted something that Cross- 
bone took as an affirmative to his appeal ; 
and, thus encouraged, proceeded. “ Ha, sir ! 
how different is London practice among peo- 
ple who really are people ! What’s that, 
sir, to the — yes, I must say it — to the dis- 
grace of being a parish doctor ? Now, sir, 
the man — the man-midwife, sir, — in a proper 
walk of society, feels that he is nobly em- 
ployed. He’s bringing dukes and lords into 
the world ; he’s what I call cultivating the 
lilies, that, as they say, neither toil nor spin; 
that’s a pleasure — that’s an honor — that’s a 
delight. But what does a parish man-mid- 
wife do, sir ? Why, he brings paupers upon 
the earth: he does nothing but cultivate 
weeds, sir — weeds : and if he is a man of 
any feeling, sir, he can’t but feel it as a thing 
beneath him. Mr. Snipeton, I’m almost 
ashamed of my.self to declare, that within 
these eight-and-forty hours I’ve brought three 
more weeds into the world.” 

“ Humph !” said Snipeton. 

“ And, as a man who wishes well to my 
country, you may guess my feelings. How 
different, now, with the man who practices 
among people who, as I say, are people ! A 
beautiful high-life baby is born. The prac- 
titioner may at once be proud of it. In its 
first little squeal he hears the voice, as I may 
say, of the House of Lords. In its little 
head he sees, if I may be aHowed to use the 
expression, the ovaria of acts of parlia- 


ment, for he’s a born law-maker. About its 
little, kicking, red leg, he already beholds the 
most noble Order of the Garter ! Now, sir, 
this is something to make a a man proud of 
his handiwork; but, sir, what is the reflection 
of the parish doctor ? He never works for 
his country. No ; when he looks upon a 
baby — if he’s any feelings worthy of a man 
— he must feel that he’s brought so much 
offal into the world. He looks upon a head 
which is to have nothing put into it ; noth- 
ing, perhaps, but sedition and rebellion, and 
all that infamy. He sees little fingers that 
are born — yes, sir, born — to set wires for 
hares ; and the fact is, if, as I say, the man 
has feelings, he feels that he’s an abettor of 
poaching and all sorts of wickedness ; — of 
wickedness that at last — and it’s very right 
it should be so — at last takes the creature to 
the gallows. Now, sir, isn’t it a dreadful 
thing for a man — for a professional man, for 
a man who has had a deal of money spent 
upon his education — isn’t it a dreadful thing 
for him to know, that he may be only a sort 
of purveyor to the gallows ? I feel the 
wrong, sir ; feel it, acutely, here ;” and 
Crossbone tapped his left side with his fore- 
finer. “ I know that I’m an abettor in a cry- 
ing evil, going about as I do, bringing weeds 
into the world ; but I can’t help it, it’s my 
business : nevertheless I feel it. Something 
ought to be done to put a stop to it ; I’m not 
politician enough to say what ; but unless 
something’s done, all I know is this, the 
weeds will certainly overgrow the lilies.” 

“ And your patient, his gallant and amiable 
lordship,” said Snipeton, still eyeing his wife, 
“ is in danger ?” 

“ Great danger,” answered Crossbone ; 
“ nevertheless, with a blessing — understand 
me, Mr. Snipeton, with a blessing — for how- 
ever wondrous my cure, 1 hope I have not 
the presumption to take it all to myself — no, 
I trust, without offence be it said, to some 
practitioners I could name, that I have some 
religion — therefore, with a blessing, his lord- 
ship may be set upon his legs. “^But it will 
be a long job — a very long job — and he 
mustn’t be removed. Just now, he’s in a 
slight delirium : talked about travelling to- 
wards London this very day. ’Twould> be 
death, sir ; certain death.” And Crossbone 
blew his nose. 

“ Indeed ! Certain death ?” repeated Snipe- 
ton, smiling grimly, and still watching the 
face of his wife. “ I fear — I mean I hope — 
Mr. Crossbone, that your anxiety for so good, 
so handsome a young man — a nobleman, too 
— may, without real cause, increase your 
fears. But then, as you say, we ought to be 
anxious for the lilies.” 

‘‘ I’d have given the worth of — of — I don’t 
know what — could I have been here before. 
Two or three hours earlier might have made 
all the difference ; for his lordship has great 


72 


THE HISTORY OP 


nervous irritability — is most wonderfully and 
delicately strung. But I was away, as I 
say, producing the weeds, sir. Yes, I’ve 
ridden. I’m ashamed to say how many miles 
since ten o’clock last night ; and what’s my 
reward, sir? What, as parish doctor and 
midwife, is my consolation ? Why this, sir : 
that I’ve helped to bring misery and want, 
and I don’t know how many other sorts of 
vices into the world, when I might — for with- 
out vanity I will say it — when I might have 
been employed for the future honor and glory 
of my country. Ha, Mr. Snipeton ! happy 
is the professional man who labors among 
the lilies! Sweet is his satisfaction I Now, 
sir, when I ride home early in the morning 
— for the parish people, as I say, always 
make a point of knocking a man up at the 
most unseasonable hour ; they do it on pur- 
pose, sir, to show the power they have over 
you — now, sir, when I’m riding home, what’s 
my feelings ? Why, sir, as a lover of my 
country, there’s something in my breast that 
won’t let me feel happy and comfortable. 
There’s something that continually reproaches 
me with having helped to add to the incum- 
brance of the nation : as I say, that distresses 
me with the thought that I’ve been culti- 
vating weeds, sir, nothing but weeds. Now 
a job like the present I look upon as a re- 
ward for my past misfortunes. It is a beau- 
tiful case !” 

“ Because so full of danger ?” said Snipe- 
ton, still looking at his pale and silent wife. 

“ It is impossible that a blow could have 
been struck more favorable for a skilful 
surgeon. The sixteenth part of an inch, sir, 
more or less on one side or the other, and 
that young man must have been a very hand- 
some corpse.” 

Snipeton made no answer ; but with 
clenched teeth, and suppressed breath, still 
lared at his wife. Passion shook him, yet 
e controlled it ; his eyes still upon the pale 
face that every moment grew whiter. An- 
other instant, and Clarissa fell back in her 
chair, speechless', motionless. Her husband 
moved not, but groaned despairingly. 

“ Fainted !” cried Crossbone, “ call Mrs. 
Wilton,” and at the same moment the house- 
keeper appeared. With anguish in her look 
she hastened to her mistress. “Nothing, 
nothing at all” — said the apothecary; and 
then, with a smirk towards Snipeton, “noth- 
ing, my dear sir, but what’s to be expected.” 

“ She’s worse, sir — much worse, I fear, 
than you suppose,” said Mrs. Wilton, and 
she trembled. 

“ I think, ma’am,” replied Crossbone, with 
true pill-box dignity, “ I think I ought to 
know how ill a lady is, and how ill she ought 
to be. Have you no salts — no water, in the 
house ?” 

“ I shall be better — in a moment, better” — 
said Clarissa, feebly, and then grasping the 


arm of Mrs. Wilton, she added, “ help me to 
my room.” She thei^ rose with an effort, 
and supported by the housekeeper, quitted 
the apartment. And still her husband fol- 
lowed her with eyes, glaring like a wild 
beast’s. Then, looking up, he caught the 
relaxed, the simpering face of the apothe- 
cary. 

“In the name of the fiends,” cried Snipe- 
ton, fiercely, “ wherefore with that monkey 
face do you grin at me ?” 

“My dear sir,” said Crossbone, smiling 
still more laboriously, “ my dear sir, you’re a 
happy man !” 

“Happy!” cried Snipeton, in a hoarse 
voice, and with a look of deepest misery — 
“Happy !” 

“ Of course. You ought to be. What 
more delightful than the hope of, — eh ? — a 
growing comfort to your declining years — a 
staff) as the saying is, to your old age ?” 

The mystic meaning of the apothecary 
flashed upon the husband; the old man shook 
as though ague-stricken, and covering his 
face with his hands, he fell heavily as lead 
into a chair. 

Mr. Crossbone was silent in his astonish- 
ment. He looked wonderingly about him. 
Was iiis practice to -be so greatly enlarged 
in one day ? Could it be possible that Snipe- 
ton — a man who wore like an oak, could be 
ill ? Snipeton, to be sure, was not, to Cross- 
bone’s thought, a lily patient ; but then, how 
very far was he above the weeds ! The 
apothecary was about to feel Snipeton’s 
pulse ; had the professional fingers on the 
wrist, when the old man snatched his arm 
away, and that with a vigor that well nigh 
carried Crossbone off his legs. The apothe- 
ca y w^as about to pay some equivocal com- 
pliment to the old gentleman’s strength, when 
Nicholas ran in with the medicine duly com- 
pounded by Mr. Sims, and flustered with a 
startling piece of news. 

“ They was bringing the murderer to the 
house, that the gentleman” — for JN'icholas 
knew not that the sufferer was a lord — • 
“ might ’dentify the bloodspiller afore he 
died.” 

And Nicholas repeated truly what he had 
heard. Rumor had travelled — and she rarely 
goes so fast as when drawn by lies — to the 
Lamb and Star. And there — not stopping 
to alight — she halloed into the gaping ears 
of the landlady the terrible intelligence that 
the young gentleman almost murdered last 
night, lay at Dovesnest : that his wound was 
mortal ; that he w^as dying fast ; that he had 
already made his will, Dorothy Vale and 
Ebenezer Snipeton having already witnessed 
it. This news, sooner than smoke, filled 
every corner of the house. Great was the 
stir through the Lamb and Star. Tipps, the 
constable, on the instant, wore a most solemn 
look of authority : on the instant summoned 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


73 


St. Giles to prepare for his removal, at the 
same time cautiously feeling the handcuffs to 
learn if they still remained true to their trust. 
The barber left a pedlar half-shaved to ac- 
company the party ; and in a few minutes, 
the horse was put to the cart; and St. Giles, 
who spoke not a syllable, was seated in it be- 
tween Tipps and the landlord, Mr. Blink 
having donned his Sunday coat and waist- 
coat, that he might pay proper respect to 
the solemnity ; whilst the barber, grasping 
a cudgel, guarded the culprit from behind. 
“ Stop ! shall I take th'h blunderbuss, for 
fear V asked the landlord of Tipps, and eye- 
ing St. Giles. “ No,” answered the consta- 
ble, smiling confidently and looking affec- 
tionately at the manacle, no ; them dear 
cuffs never deceived me yet.” Crack went 
the whip — away started the horse ; and 
Tipps, the landlord, and the barber, looked 
about them freshly, happily ; smiling gaily 
in the morning sun — gaily as though they 
were carrying a sheep to market — ay, a 
sheep with a golden fleece ! 

And the landlady watched the whirling 
wheels, and with heartwarm wish (poor 
soul !) wished that the wretch miight be hang- 
ed, yes, fifty feet high. And Becky, the 
maid, in her deep pity, braving the tongue 
of her mistress, stood sobbing in the road, 
and then, as suddenly inspired, plucked off 
one of her old shoes, and flung it after St. 
Giles, as with kindly superstition she said, 
for luck. “ For she know’d it, and could 
swear it ; the poor cretur’s hands was as in- 
nocent of blood as any baby’s.” Foolish 
Becky ! By such presumptuous pity — a 
pity, as Mrs. Blink thought, flying in the 
face of all respectability, — did you fearfully 
risk the place of maid-of-all-work at a 
hedge-side hotel ; a place worth a certain 
forty shillings a year, besides the complimen- 
tary half-pence. 

Return we to Nicholas. Ere Snipeton 
and Crossbone were well possessed of the 
news, the cart drove up before the window. 
“And there is the murderer !” cried Cross- 
bone. “ Bless me ! there’s no need at all to 
try that man — there’s every letter of Cain 
all over the villain’s face. A child at the 
horn-book might spell it. ' And now they’re 
going to bring him in. Ha ! my fine fel- 
low,” added the apothecary, as St. Giles 
alighted ; “ there’s a cart you won’t get into 
so quickly I can tell you. What a bold 
looking villain ! With so much blood upon 
him, too ! A lord’s blood, too, to look so 
brazenly ! W’'hat do you think, Mr. Snipe- 
ton 1” 

Now, Snipeton was not a man of over- 
flowing charity, yet, oddly enough, he looked 
at St. Giles with placid eyes. The old man, 
to the scandal of Crossbone, merely said, 
“Poor fellow! He looks in sad plight. Poor 
fellow !” 


In a few moments, Tipps, the constable, 
was shown to the presence of the master of 
Dovesnest. “ He was very sorry to make 
a hubbub in his honor’s house, but as the 
gentleman was dying, there was no time to 
be lost afore he swore to the murderer. 
Sam, from the Lamb and Star, had gone off 
to the justice to tell him all about it, and in 
a jiffy Mr. Wattles would be there.” 

“I think,” observed Crossbone, “ I think 
I had better see how my distinguished pa- 
tient is.” With this, the apothecary, mak- 
ing himself up for the important task, softly 
quitted the room. 

“And you’re sure you have the right 
rnanl” asked Snipeton of the constable. 

“ Never made a blunder in all my life, sir,” 
answered Tipps, with a mild pride. 

“ Mr. Justice Wattles,” cried Nicholas, 
big with the words, and showing the magis- 
trate inv 

“ Mr. Snipeton,” said Wattles, “ this busi- 
ness is — ” 

But the Justice was suddenly stopped by 
the doctor. Crossbone rushed in, slightly 
pale and much agitated, exclaiming, “ The 
patient’s gone I” 

“ Not dead 1” cried Snipeton, exultingly, 
and rubbing his hands. 

“Dead! no! But he’s gone — left the 
house — vanished ; — come and see !” Cross- 
bone, followed by all,, rushed to the room in 
which, some minutes before, lay the mur- 
dered St. James. 

He was gone! All were astonished. So 
great was the surprise, not a word was 
spoken ; until Dorothy Vale, who had crept 
into the room, with her cold calm voice, ad- 
dressed the apothecary. Pointing to the 
stains in the couch, she said, “ If you please, 
sir, can you give me nothing to take out 
that blood ?” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“ And now,” thinks the reader, “ St. 
Giles is free. There is no charge against 
him ; he is not the murderer, men, in ‘his 
wretchedness, took him for. St. James, 
with his injuries upon him, has withdrawn 
himself ; and once again the world lies wide 
before St. Giles.” Not so. There still re- 
mains, to his confusion, a hard accuser. 
St. Giles is destitute. In the teeming, lux- 
urious county of Kent, amidst God’s prom- 
ises of plenty to man, he is a guilty inter- 
loper. He may not grasp a handful of the 
soil, he cannot purchase one blade of wheat ; 
he is a pauper and a vagrant ; a foul pres- 
ence in the world’s garden, and must there- 
fore be punished for his intrusion. Every 


74 


THE HISTORY OF 


rag lie carries is an accusing tongue ; he is 
destitute and wandering ; he has strayed in 
the paradise of the well-to-do, and must be 
sharply reproved for his whereabout. And 
therefore St. Giles will be committed for a 
season to the county gaol, as a rogue and 
vagabond. The roguery is not proved upon 
him, but it has been shown that whilst de- 
cent people have goose-beds and weather- 
proof chambers, he, at the best, has straw 
and a barn. It is, toU, made a misdemeanor 
against mother Earth to sleep upon her na- 
ked breast, with only the heavens above the 
sleeper ; and as St. Giles had often so offend- 
ed — he could not deny the iniquity — he was, 
we say, committed to gaol by J ustice W attles, 
as rogue and vagabond. Now, to punish a 
man for having nothing, is surely a sport in- 
vented by Beelzebub for the pleasure of the 
rich ; yes, to whip a rascal for his rags is to 
pay flattering homage to cloth of gold. 
Nothing was proved against St. Giles but 
want ; which, being high treason against the 
majesty of property, that large offence might 
be reasonably supposed to contain every 
other. 

“ Something, I’ve no doubt, will be brought 
against him,” said Justice Wattles ; “ in the 
mean time, he stands committed as a rogue 
and vagabond.” And Tipps, the constable, 
led away his prisoner, preceded by the host 
of the Lamb and Star, and the dispirited 
barber, who very dolorously expressed his 
disappointment, “ that he left his business 
and all, and only for a ragamuffin as wasn’t 
worth salt ! If he hadn’t thought him a 
murderer, he’d never troubled his head with 
such rubbish.” “ No, and you’d never have 
kad my cart,” said the landlord to Tipps. 
“ I thought the fellow would turn out some- 
body — and he’s nothing but a vagrant. 
Come up !” cried the Lamb and Star ; and 
sharply wffiipping his horse, to ease his own 
bad temper, he drove off, the barber vainly 
hallooing for a seat in the vehicle. Where- 
upon, Constable Tipps, casting a savagely 
inquiring look at St. Giles’ handcuffs, with 
an oath bade his prisoner move on, and then 
railed at his own particular star, that had 
troubled him with such varmint. 

Nevertheless, although St. Giles’ hands 
were white, murder had done its worst. 
As yet none, save the homicide, already 
blasted with the knowledge, knew of the 
deed. How lovelily the sun shone — how 
beautiful all things looked and beamed in its 
light : the lark sang, like a freed spirit, in 
the vault of heaven : and yet beneath it, lay 
a terrible witness of the guilt of man ; a 
mute and bloody evidence of another Cain ! 
St. Giles, however, was on his way to the 
county gaol, ere the deed was discovered. 
Not willing to give an account of himself, 
he was committed to imprisonment and hard 
labor in punishment of his destitution. That 


he was not, in addition, whipped for his pov- 
erty, testified strongly to the injudicious 
clemency of Justice Wattles. Such mercy 
went far to encourage rags and tatters. 

Leave we for a while the desolate home 
of Dovesnest. Leave we that miserable 
man, Snipeton, writhing at his hearth ; now 
striving to seek for hope, for confidence, in 
the m.eek and wretchedfface of his wife, and 
now starting at her look as at a dagger’s 
point. 

A few hours had passed and again the 
Lamb and Star was a scene of tumult. And 
this time, there was no doubt of the atrocity. 
It w^as now impossible that the wmrthy folks, 
assembled in the hostelry, could be tricked 
into useless sympathy. There was now no 
doubt that a man w^as killed ; and if St. 
Giles had escaped the charge of former 
homicide, why such escape only the more 
strongly proved his guilt of the new wicked- 
ness. “ He’ll be hanged, after all !” cried 
the landlord, with the aif of a man, fore- 
tasting an enjoyment. “The villain! he 
was born for the gibbet,” said the barber ; 
“ if I wouldn’t walk over glass bottles to 
see him hanged, I’m not a Christian.” 
Whilst the barber and others were thus 
vehemently declaiming their Christianity, 
there arrived at the Lamb and Star a most 
important person. Up to that hour, he had 
been a rustic of average insignificance ; but 
he found himself a creature of considerable 
interest — a man, heartily welcomed as a 
boon and treasure. This happy man was 
one Pyefinch ; and was known to the sur- 
rounding country as a mole-catcher of toler- 
able parts. It was he who had discovered 
the body of the murdered man ; and had he 
discovered some great blessing to the human 
family, it is very questionable whether he 
would have been so heartily welcomed by 
many of its members. It had, however, 
been his good fortune — for we must still call 
it so — to light upon the body of Farmer 
Willis, bloody and stark in his own meadow 
— and again and again was he pressed to 
rehearse the tale, whilst mugs of ale re- 
warded the story-teller. Instantly was Pye- 
finch fastened upon by Mrs. Blink, and it 
was hard to deny such a wmman anything. 
After short preparation, did the mole-catcher 
— stimulated by malt and hops — begin his 
terrible history. 

“Why, you see, it was in this manner,” 
said Pyefinch. “I was goin’ along by Cow 
Meadow, ’bout four in the mornin’, wi’ my 
dog Thistle, just to look after the snares. 
Cruel sight of varmint there be along that 
meadow to be sure. Well, I was thinking 
of nothing — or what I was a thinking on, 
for 1 scorns a lie, is nothin’ to nobody. 
Well, goin’ along in this manner. Thistle 
running afore me, and ahind me, and a both 
sides o’ me” — 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


75 


“ Never mind Thistle,” cried the land- 
lady, “come to the murder, Tom.” 

“ Ax your pardon, missus. I shall have 
to tell all this story at ’sizes ; I know what 
them chaps, the lawyers, be, to bother a 
poor man who’s no scholard — so I’ve made 
my mind up, never to tell the story but after 
one way ; then I’m cocksure not to be 
caught off my legs nohow.” And Pyefinch 
drank, doubtless, to his sagacity. ^ i 

“Very right, Tom,” cried the landlord; 
and then he turned with knit eyebrows to 
his wife. “Be quiet, will you! like all 
women— want the kernel without cracking 
the nut. Be quiet..” And Blink gave a 
conjugal growl. “Go on, Tom.” 

“ As I was saying,” continued the mole- 
catcher, “ Thistle was running afore me, and 
ahind me, and a both sides o’ me — and bark- 
as though he wished he could talk ; just to 
say how comfortable he felt, now that the 
spring was come — for, depend upon it, dumb 
creatures have their notions of spring just 
as well as we — well, where was IV’ 

“ Thistle was barking,” prompted the land- 
lady, fidgetting and casting about impatient 
looks. 

“ To be sure he was. Well, all of a sud- 
den he held his tongue ; he was then a good 
way on afore me, down in the pitch o’ the field. 
I thought nothing o’ that; when on a sud- 
den he give cry agin, but quite a different 
bark to t’other. That didn’t stagger me, 
neither ; for I thought he’d lit on a hedge- 
hog ; and of all varmint o’ the earth, Thistle 
hates a hedgehog; ha! worse than pison,that 
he do. Well, arter a while. Thistle runs 
up to me. You should ha’ seen that dog,” 
cried the mole-catcher, rising bolt from 
his seat, “ his face was as full o’ sense as 
any Christian’s: his eyes! if they did n’t 
burn in ’s head like any blacksmith’s coals ; 
and his jaw was dropt as if he could n’t shut 
it, it were so stiff wi’ wunder — and all his 
hairs upon his back right away down to the 
end o’ his tail stood up like hedge-stakes — 
and he looked at me, as much as to say — 
‘What do you think P ” 

“ Bless us, and save us !” cried the land- 
lady, wondering at the discrimination of the 
dog. 

“ I did n’t make him no answer,” said the 
mole-catcher, “ but walks on arter him, he 
looking behind him now and then, and 
shaking his head sometimes terrible, until I 
came to the pitch o’ the field ; and there — 
oh Lord !” Here Pyefinch seized the mug, 
and, emptying it, was newly strengthened. 
“ There, I saw Master Willis in his best 
clothes — and you know he was always par- 
ticular like in them matters — there I saw 
him, as at first I thought, fast asleep, look- 
ing so blessed happy, you can’t think. Ho w- 
sumever. Thistle puts his nose to the grass, 
and sets up sich a howl, and then I sees a 


pool of blood, and then I run away as fast as 
legs ’ud carry me, right away to the farm* 
Well, they’d never looked for Master Willis. 
They’d thought he’d stayed at Canterbury 
all night ; and there he was, poor soul ! kill- 
ed like a sheep in his own field. Terrible, 
is n’t it ?” and Pyefinch presented the empty 
mug to the laadlady, who, the tale being told, 
set it down again. 

“ It’s the smugglers as has done it,” cried 
Becky. “ They owed him a grudge since 
autumn, when he found their tubs among his 
corn : it’s the smugglers, as I’m a sinner.” 

“ The smugglers ! — poor souls !” — said 
Mrs Blink, who, though a licensed dealer in 
spirits, had, strangely enough, a large sympa- 
thy for contraband traders ; “ they would n’t 
hurt a lamb. It’s that villain that slept in 
the barn ; and I only hope that you, Miss 
Trollop, knew nothing of the business.” 

“ Me !” exclaimed Becky, “ me knowan}*^- 
thing !” Has it been any other than her 
mistress, Becky would have been too happy 
to vindicate the strength and volubility of her 
tongue. The woman rose strongly within 
her, and tempted her to speak; but she 
thought of her forty shillings per annum ; 
and so the woman railed not, but cried. 

“ And how does Master Robert take it ?” 
cried the landlord. 

“ Why, wonderful, considering,” said the 
mole-catcher. “ A little dashed at first, in 
course. 

“ And he that was so merry, too, at the 
dance ! Well, it’s a world to live in,’*’ mor- 
alized the barber. “ He stood ale all round, 
and little thought that he’d no uncle. He 
danced with every gal above stairs, and never 
dreamed o’ what was going on in Cow Mea- 
dow. He’ll have the old man’s land o’ 
course ? Poor soul ! He’ll feel it if any- 
body does.” 

“ Wakes and fairs won’t be no worse for 
Master Robert,” said the landlord. “ That 
is, supposing this matter don’t steady him. 
But, to be sure, what a noble soul it is. 
Well, if we could cry till the sea run over, 
it would n’t bring back the old man ; and so 
here’s long life and good fortin to his heir. 
And a rare night we shall have of it — that is, 
when the morning’s over and it’s all proper 
— yes ; a rare night we shall have at the 
Lamb and Star.” 

“ I wonder who he’ll marry?” cried the 
landlady. 

“Nobody,” averred Mr. Blink, “he’s too 
free a spirit — too noble a cretur. Besides, 
he knows too much of life. She must be a 
sharp thing — yes, she must get up very ear- 
ly for mushrooms, who’d get Bob Willis.” 

Of course, suspicion followed St. Giles to 
gaol : but although his poverty, his house- 
less condition, and, more, his refusal’to give 
any account of himself, fixed him in the 
minds of many as the murderer — there was 


76 


THE HISTOBY OF 


no point, no circumstance (and many were 
the examinations of the vagrant) that could 
connect him with the deed. It was an es- 
pecial annoyance to several worthy people 
that nothing, as they said, could be brought 
home to St. Giles. He seemed, above all 
creatures, the very creature whom such an 
atrocity would fit— ^and yet the failure of all 
evidence was as complete as to certain folks 
it was distressing. However, there was one 
comfort. St. Giles was fast in prison as a 
rogue and vagabond ; and in good time, suf- 
ficient facts might rise up against him. He 
had been set down to be hanged ; and in the 
cheerful faith of those who had judged him, 
it was impossible he should escape a doom 
so peculiarly fitted to him. Hence, St. Giles 
remained in gaol, like a fine haunch in a 
larder, to be some day feasted on. 

A week had passed, and still justice was 
baffled. The murdered man slept in his 
grave, and still his murderer walked the free 
earth. Justice Wattles had a double motive 
for the restless zeal which animated him in 
his search for the culprit : there was his 
character as a magistrate : and, more, there 
was his feeling of kinship towards the vic- 
tim, Farmer Willis being his brother-in-law. 
Hence, Justice Wattles, indefatigable in his 
purpose, called at Dovesnest. A most un- 
welcome visitor was his worship to Ebenezer 
Snipeton, then preparing to depart from his 
hermitage for the din of London ; and at the 
very moment the magistrate was announced, 
rehearsing a farewell speech to Clarissa — a 
speech that, until her husband’s return, 
* should be to her as a charm, an amulet, to 
preserve her from the temptations of evil spi- 
rits. Snipeton had compelled himself to believe 
the story of his wife, avouched too as it was 
by Mrs. Wilton. He had tyrannized over 
his heart that it should give credence to that 
he fain would hope. And so, he would leave 
home, a happy husband, convinced, assured 
past suspicion, of the unbroken faith, the en- 
during loyalty, of his devoted wife. It was 
better so to feed himself, than yield to the 
despair that would destroy him. Better to 
be duped by falsehood, than crushed by 
truth. It was accident — mere accident — 
that had brought St. James to his house ; 
and that, too, in such a plight, it was impos- 
sible that Clarissa could deny him hospitable 
usage. And with this thought, a load was 
lifted from the old man’s heart, and he would 
— ^yes, he would be happy. Snipeton was 
wandering in this Paradise of Fools, when 
the name of Justice W^'attles called him 
home. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Snipeton — a dreadful 
matter this, sir — a dreadful calamity to fall 
-Upon a respectable family — a startling end, 
sir, for my poor brother — so punctual and so 
excellent a man,” were the first words of the 
mstice. 


“ Very terrible,” answered Snipeton. “ I 
have already heard all the particulars,” and he 
pulled on his glove. 

“ Not all, sir — I’m afraid, not all,” said 
Wattles. “ That young gentleman who was 
brought to your house” — 

“ Well?” 

“ He’s a young nobleman to be sure ; but 
still it’s odd, Mr. Snipeton; 1 say it’s odd,” 
anijl the justice leered at Ebenezer. 

“ Speak out, man ?” cried Snipeton, ana 
the justice pulled himself up at the abrupt- 
ness of the command. “ What of him ?” 

“Why, the truth is, Mr. Snipeton, that 
young nobleman has been seen lurking about 
here very much of late. That’s odd. Do 
you know what business brings him to these 
parts ?” 

“How should I know !” exclaimed Snipe- 
ton, looking fiercely at the justice, as at one 
who would read the secrets of his soul. 

“To be sure ; perhaps not,” said Wattles, 
“ and yet you see it’s odd ; he was brought 
here wounded, the very nightmy poor brother 
— the most respectable man in Kent — what 
a sort of stain it is upon the family ! — the very 
night he met his fate. You did n’t know, 
then, that the young nobleman used to hang 
about these quarters ?” 

“ Justice Wattles,” replied Snipeton, al- 
most hoarse with suppressed passion, “ if as 
a magistrate you would examine me, I must 
attend your summons. My house is not a 
court.” 

“ Certainly not — certainly not,” answered 
the justice, suddenly taking up his dignity. 
“ I ask your pardon ; of course, this matter 
will be sifted elsewhere — thoroughly sifted. 
Only believing the young nobleman to be 
your friend” — 

“ He’s no friend of mine,” said Snipeton, 
sullenly. 

“ Well, a friend of Mrs. Snipeton’s — oh, 
my dear sir ! don’t look at me in that way — 
I meant no offence, none whatever ; I meant 
an acq uaintance — a visitor of Mrs. Sni peton’s, 
nothing more. But, of course, the law can 
reach him — of course, he can be made to ex- 
plain everything — lord as he is. Still, being 
a friend of yours — I mean of your wife’s-^ 
I intend to show him some consideration. 
Nevertheless, as you say your house is not a 
court, why good morning, Mr. Snipeton — 
good morning.” And saying this, Justice 
Wattles, with all the dignity he could com- 
pass, quitted the master of Dovesnest. Poor 
Snipeton ! but now he was blowing bubbles 
of hope, so brightly tinted ; but now they 
were floating about him in a sunny sky, and 
now they were broken, vanished. 

As Justice Wattles, with a flushed coun- 
tenance, crossed the threshold of Dovesnest, 
he was encountered by Nicholas, the sole 
serving-man of Snipeton. “ Bless me ! your 
v.'orship,’' cried Nicholas, “here’s luck in 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.' 


77 


in meeting you — here’s a something as I was 
first going to show master, and then to bring 
to you,” and with this, the man presented to 
the magistrate an oJd black leather pocket 
book. 

“God save us!” cried Wattles, and he 
trembled violently — “ where did this come 
from ?” 

“ I found it in a hedge — just as it is — I 
haven’t looked at it — in a hedge by Pinkton’s 
Corner,” said the man. 

Wattles, with great emotion, opened the 
book — turned deadly pale — suddenly closed 
it again, and with a faint, forced smile at his 
white lips, said — “Oh, it’s nothing — nothing 
at all. But you may as well leave it with 
me, Nicholas : if it is inquired for, 1 shall 
have it ready. You know it’s in good 
hands, Nicholas ; and take this for your lion- 
esty ; and until I call upon you, say nothing 
at all about it — nothing at all.” With this, 
the justice unconsciously made a low bow to 
the serving-man, and walked a few steps 
rapidly on. Suddenly he paused, and call- 
ing tlie man to him, gave him a guinea. 
“For your honesty, Nicholas — though the 
thing is n’t worth a groat — still for your hon- 
esty ; and as I’ve told you, till you hear 
from me, you need say nothing of the mat- 
ter.” Nicholas, well pleased to sell his si- 
lence on such terms, pocketed the guinea, 
and with a knowing nod at the justice, went 
his way. Wattles walked hurriedly on, 
turning down a lane that skirted the Devil’s 
Elbow. The old man trembled from head 
to foot — his eyes wandered, and his lips 
moved with unspoken words. Now he ran, 
and now staggered down the lane ; and at 
length paused midway and looked cautious- 
ly about him. He then drew forth the pocket- 
book, and with deepest misery in his face, 
proceeded to search it. It contained noth- 
ing save a large gold ring, set with a cor- 
nelian. As he held it to the light, the old 
man sighed : then tears fast and thick fell 
from his eyes, and he sank down upon a 
bank, and, hiding his face in his hands, 
groaned most piteously. “ God pardon him ?” 
at length he cried— “ but Robert’s done it : 
Robert’s killed the old man ; it’s Robert’s 
ring — my Bible oath to it— his ring : and the 
Lord has brought it to witness against him. 
1 was sure he had done it ; no, no, not sure 
— but I feared it, and — merciful Heaven !— 
to butcher his own flesh and blood — to kill 
his own uncle !” Again the old man wept 
and sobbed, and wrung his hands in the very 
impotence of sorrow ! “ And what am I to 

do ? Am I to hang him ? Heaven shield 
as ! Hang a Willis ! — ’twould be horrible. 
And then the disgrace to the family — the 
oldest in Kent ! What shall I do — what 
shall I do ?” again and again cried the jus- 
tice. “ The murderer must not escape ; but 
then, to hang him I — the respectability of the 


family — the respectability* of the family !” 
And thus was the old man perplexed. His 
horror of the deed was great ; he wept ear- 
nest, truthful tears over the fate of his broth- 
er-in-law, a worthy, honest soul, whose great- 
est weakness had been, indeed, undue indul- 
gence of his wretched assassin. All the 
horror, the ingratitude of his crime would 
present itself to the justice, who would for 
the moment determine to denounce the hom- 
icide ; and then his pride was touched ; he 
thought of the shame, the lasting ignominy, 
as he deemed it, that would cling to the fami- 
ly, and thus held in doubt, suspense — in his 
weakness, he would v/eep and pray of Hea- 
ven to be supported and directed. “ Robert’s 
a monster that pollutes the earth,” he would 
cry — “ he must, he shall be hanged.” And 
then, the stern justice would clasp his hands, 
and moan, and mutter — “ but the disgrace to 
the family — the disgrace to the family !” 
And thus, unresolved, days passed, and Jus- 
tice Wattles said no word of the pocket-book 
of the murdered man — breathed no syllable 
of the damning evidence, supplied by the 
ring, against his nephew ; who, it appeared, 
had been wrought to the commission of the 
act, by the refusal of the old man to supply 
the means of his profuse expense, cast away 
as it was upon the idle and the profligate 
throughout the country. The old man had 
returned from Canterbury Fair, as his assassin 
thought, with a large sum of money in his 
possession. The murderer, ready dressed 
for the village festival, had awaited his vic- 
tim ; had accomplished the act ; and then, 
with hottest speed, made for the Lamb and 
Star, to join in the revelry of the merry- 
makers. More of this, however, as we pro- 
ceed in our history. 

And now old Snipeton must say farewell 
to his young wife. How beautiful she look- 
ed ! What an air of truth and purity was 
around her ! How her mute meekness re- 
buked her husband’s doubts ! She wanly 
smiled, and the old man reproached himself 
that for a moment he could suspect that 
angel sweetness. He had taken new resolu- 
tion from her trustful gentleness. That smile 
of innocence had determined him. He would 
quit trade; retire from London. He had 
enough, more than enough, of worldly means ; 
and h°e would no longer separate himself from 
such a wife ; but — his present ventures re- 
alized — he would retire to Dovesnest, and 
there pass away a life, dedicating every mo- 
ment, every thought, to the better treasure 
that there enriched him. Henceforth he 
he \vould destroy, annihilate, every rising 
thought that should do her honor injury ; he 
would be a confiding, happy husband. Noth- 
ing should peril the great felicity in store for 
him. With this thought, this fooling of the 
heart — he kissed his wife; and though she 
met his touch with lips of ice, he could not, 


78 


THE HISTORY OF 


would not, feel their coldness ; but left his 
home, and for many a mile upon the road ; 
strove to possess himself with the great as- 
surance that he was still an honored, happy 
husband. It was a sin, a great wickedness < 
done to heaven’s brightest truth to doubt it. 

Poor old man! Wretched huckster! 
tricked and betrayed in the bargain he had 
purchased ; bought with so much money 
from the priest. Willingly befooled by hope, 
he could not see the desperate calmness, the 
firm, cold resolution that possessed his young 
wife at the time of parting. At that moment, 
as she believed, she looked upon her hus- 
band for the last time : in that moment, it 
was her comfort that she bade farewell to 
him who made her life a daily misery — a 
daily lie. She had taken counsel with her- 
self, and, come what might, would end the 
loathsome hypocrisy, that, like a foul disease, 
consumed her. He quitted her. She wept; 
and then a ray of comfort brightened her 
face ; and she moved with lightened step, a 
thing of new-found liberty. She sought to 
be alone ; and yet — it was very strange — 
that old housekeeper, Mrs. Wilton, would 
still find an excuse to follow her : still, with 
questioning face would look upon her. The 
woman could not know her resolution. Im- 
possible. Yet still, like a spy, the hireling 
of her husband, she would watch her. And 
then, at times, the woman gazed so mourn- 
fully at her ; answered her with such strange 
emotion in her voice, with such familiar ten- 
derness, she knew not how to rebuke her. 

“ And my master returns in a week !” said 
Mrs. Wilton ; a long time for one who loves 
a wife so dearly.” 

“ Loves me !” answered Clarissa with a 
shudder, which she strove not to disguise, 
“Yes ; there it is — he loves me.” 

“ A great happiness, if wisely thought of,” 
said the housekeeper, with cold calm looks. 
“A great happiness.” 

“No doubt, if wisely thought of,” rejoin- 
ed Clarissa ; then, with a sigh, she added : 
“ How hard the task of wisdom ! But we 
will not talk of this now, Mrs. Vvilton ; I 
have another matter to speak of : I am kept 
such a prisoner here” — and Clarissa smled, 
and tried to talk gaily — “ that for once I am 
determined to play truant. Would you be- 
lieve it 1 I have scarcely seen Canterbury. 
I have a mighty wish to visit the Cathedral ; 
I hear it is so beautiful — so awful.” 

“ I would you had spoken of this to Mr. 
Snipeton,” said the housekeeper, gravely. 

“And wherefore 1 To have my wish re- 
fused? To be sentenced a prisoner to the 
house ; or, at most, to the limits of the gar- 
den? No: 1 know his anxiety, his tender- 
ness, his love for me, as you would say — 
therefore, if I would go at all, I must go 
unknown to my lord and owner.” 


“ Lord and master,” you would say, ob- 
served Mrs. Wilton, looking full at Clarissa 

“ Owner is 'sometimes a better word ; at 
least I feel it so. And therefore, as I am 
determined on my pilgrimage” — 

“ Very well, it must be made,” said Mrs. 
Wilton. “Whenever you will, I will be 
ready to accompany you.” 

“Oh no; I will not take you from the 
the house : it is necessary that you should 
remain. Dorothy is so dull and slow, I 
should not feel happy to leave her alone. 
Let Nicholas order a chaise, and he — yes, 
he can attend me. Now, no words, good 
Mrs. Wilton ; for once I must have my way 
— for once you must not hope to deny me.” 

“ And when, Mrs. Snipeton,” added the 
housekeeper, “ when .do you go ?” 

“ Oh, to-morrow,” answered Clarissa, with 
forced vivacity. 

Mrs. Wilton looked at the girl with pierc- 
ing eyes ; then slowly, gravely asked — “ And 
when return?” 

“ Oh, the next day,” and the blood flush- 
ed in Clarissa’s face as the words fell from 
her. 

“ No, no, no ; that day would never come, 
your burning face, your looks, tell me it would 
not.” 

“ Mrs. Wilton,” cried Clarissa, who vain- 
ly strove to look commanding, dignified ; to 
play the mistress to the presumptuous menial. 
“ Mrs. Wilton, by what right do you thus 
question my word?” 

“ By the right of love ; yes, by the love I 
bear you, lady,” answered the housekeeper. 
“I know your heart; can see the wound 
within it. I know the grief that daily wears 
youp but, with the knowledge of a deeper 
wound — of grief more terrible — a grief 
made of remorse and shame — I implore you, 
leave not your home.” 

“ And why not ? Since you know the 
bondage I endure — the loathsomeness of life 
I bear about me — the cancer of the heart 
that tortures me — the degradation of every- 
thing that makes life good and holy — where- 
fore should 1 not break the chain that body 
and soul enslaves me ? Tell me this,” ex- 
claimed Clarissa ; and her face grew death- 
ly pale : and her whole form rose and dilated 
with the passion that, fury-like, possessed 
her. 

“ I have told you,” said Mrs. Wilton — 
“ for the more terrible grief that follows.” 

“ Can it be sharper, more consuming, than 
that I now endure?” asked Clarissa, smiling 
bitterly. 

“ Y^es — yes !” was the answer, solemnly 
utterecl. 

“ How know you this ?” asked the young 
• wife ; and she looked with new and curious 
I interest at the woman fast changing before 
her. Changing. Her face, always so calm. 


ST. GILES .AND ST. JAMES. 79 


SO self-possessed, so statue-like, relaxed, and 
beamed with a sweet yet mournful look- 
It seemed as though to that time she had 
only played a part — that now, the true 
woman would reveal herself, Clarissa was 
surprised, subdued, by the new aspect of her 
housekeeper. 

“ You ask me how I know this. It is a 
brief tale : and I will tell you. I knew a 
maid sold like yourself — sold is the word — 
in lawful wedlock. The man who pur- 
chased her was good and honorable ; one of 
the men whom the world accounts as its 
best citizens ; plain, worthy, and dispassion- 
ate ; a person most respectable. He would 
not, in his daily bargains, have wronged his 
neighbor of a doit. An upright,^ a most 
punctual man. And yet he took a wife 
without a heart. He loved the hollow thing 
that, like a speaking image, vowed in the 
face of God to do that she knew she never 
could fulfil — to love and honor him ; and he, 
that just, good man, smiled with great hap- 
piness upon the pretty perjurer — and took 
her to his bosom as the treasure of the 
world. True, at times he had his doubts — 
his sad misgivings. He would look in his 
wife’s face — would meet her cold, obedient 
eyes — and sometimes wonder when a heart 
would grow within her. He had- married 
her, believing in such growth; it was his 
wisdom — his knowledge of mankind and the 
world — to be assured of it. And so they 
lived for three long years together; the 
chain of wedlock growing heavier with every 
heavy day. She became a mother. Even 
that new woman’s life — that sudden knowl- 
edge that opens in the heart an unimagined 
fount of love — failed to harmonize her soul 
with him who was her child's father. Still 
they jarred ; or, at best, were silent towards 
each other. I will hurry to the close. She 
left him ; worse, she left her child. That 
silver link, that precious bond that should 
have held her even to scorn, unkindness, 
misery, witli sacrilegious act — she broke. 
She left her husband for one who should 
have been her husband. You do not listen 
to me !” 

“ Y es — yes — yes,” cried Clarissa — “ every 
word; each syllable. Goon.” 

“ For a few months she lived a mockery 
of happiness, A year or two passed, and 
then her lover left her, and she stood alone 
in the world, clothed with her harlot shame. 
It was then, indeed, she felt the mother ; 
then, what should have been her joys were 
turned to agonies ; and conscience, daily 
conscience, made her look within a glass to 
behold a monster there. Oh, she has told 
me, again atid again has told me ! the look, 
the voice of childhood — with all its sweet- 
ness all its music — was to her as an accus- 
ing angel that frowned, and told her of her 
fall.” 


“ And she never saw her child 1” asked 
Clarissa. 

“ F or years she knew not where to seek it. 
At length, accident discovered to her the 
place of its abode. And then the babe — the 
motherless innocent — had become almost a 
woman.” 

“ And then the mother sought her ?” 

“ No. Her husband still lived ; she did 
not dare to attempt it. Her child ! How 
knew she that that child had not been taught 
to think her mother in the gravel And 
more ; the mother had foregone her noblest 
claim at that poor little one’s best need — 
and could the woman come back again to 
urge it 1 Therefore, unknown, she watched 
her ; and, like a thief, stole glances of the 
precious creature of her blood — her only 
comfort, and her worst reproach. The girl 
became a wife ; her father died and then” — 

“ And then 1” repeated Clarissa, as the 
woman paused in the fulness of her emotion. 

“ And then the mother dared not to reveal 
herself. As servant, she entered her daugh- 
ter’s house, that, all unknown, she might 
feed her daily life with looking at her. The 
woman paused ; and, with clasped hands, 
looked with imploring anguish in the face of 
Clarissa. That look told' all; Clarissa, 
with a scream, leapt to her feet, and hung 
at her mother’s neck. 

“ Be warned — be warned,” cried the wo- 
man, and, like a dead thing, she sank in the 
chair. 


CHAPTER XV. 

To the astonishment, the rage^and indig- 
nation of the neighborhood, Robert Willis 
had been apprehended, charged with the 
murder of his uncle. After such audacity 
on the part of the law, no man held himself 
safe. The whole county rang with the 
charge ; the whole county more or less sym- 
pathized with the innocent victim of the tyr- 
anny ofjustice. It was impossible to associ- 
ate the jovial, warm-hearted merry-maker 
with any wrong ;. so wholly had he won the 
hearts of all by his many feats of rustic 
skill, his many qualities of good-fellowship. 
The men admired him for his athletic dar- 
ing ; and the women for his noble figure, his- 
rucldy face, black whiskers, and very white 
teeth. To be sure, he had had his follies; 
now and then he had played the bully, and 
the small voice of detraction added, the black- 
leg : he had moreover broken a heart or so : 
but fie had never wanted money to pay a 
treat; young men would be young men, was 
the charitable creed of the treated. Never- 
theless, it was impossible for justice to close 
her ears to rumors that, first muttered, grew 
louder and louder. Willis had been seen 


80 


THE HISTORY OP 


hurrying from Cow Meadow at the time that 
— according to evidence — the murder must 
have been committed. He had moreover 
paid many debts of late ; had been seen with 
much money in his hands ; and there was a 
strange, forced gaiety in his manner that 
showed him restless, ill at ease. In fine, al- 
though Justice Wattles — the prisoner’s rela- 
tive, and the possessor of the dead man’s 
pocket-book — loudly protested against the in- 
dignity offered to his kinsman ; although he 
eloquently put it to his brother magistrates, 
whether it was in the circle of probability for 
one so respectably born and bred, to shed the 
blood of his own relation— Robert Willis was 
committed, charged with th.e wilful murder 
of Arthur Willis. And then Justice Wattles 
said it was best it should be so : it was the 
shortest, clearest way, to stop the mouths of 
slanderers, and to show to the world the in- 
nocence, and, above all, the respectability of 
his kinsman. Yet were there people who 
wondered at the change so suddenly worked 
in the justice. His face, before so round and 
red, was shrunk and yellow ; and then he 
would strive to look so happy — would laugh 
at every other word he spoke ; would prophe- 
sy with such enjoyment the triumph of his 
brave, his much-wronged relative. 

■ And so the vagabond St. Giles and the gay 
and generous Robert Willis were brought to- 
gether. In the very good old times of our 
history, there was deeper and better homage 
paid to the well-to-do who, somehow, had 
done ill and was imprisoned therefore, than 
in these our revolutionary days, when the suc- 
cessors of Turpins and Sheppards no longer 
hold their levees in gaol lobbies, and fine 
ladies may not prattle chit-chat with felons. 
However lovely and interesting may be the 
doomed man to the female. heart, his fascina- 
tions are to be contemplated only through the 
filmy medium of the newspapers, and not, as 
in those very good and much-lamented old 
times, tete-a-tete with the housebreaker and 
murderer. Hence, Robert Willis lived in hap- 
pier days. Hence, by the grace of money 
and station, had he many little indulgencies 
which softened the rigor of captivity. Wine 
and brandy came to him like good genii 
through the prison-bars, and by their magic 
gave to stone walls a comfortable, jolly aspect ; 
again placed the prisoner in a tavern ; again 
-surrounded him with the best of fellows, 
hearts of gold ! 

' It was yet early in the morning, and Willis, 
flushed with drink, walked the court-yard 
with St. Giles, for whom, at their first meet- 
ing, he had shown a strange interest. How 
changed was he from the merry-maker who, 
but for a few moments, was before the reader 
at the Lamb and Star ! He seemed to have 
grown bigger — burlier. His face was full- 
Wooded ; his eyebrows shagged and ragged ; 
his eyes flashed to and fro, dwelling upon no 


object ; and then he would laugh loudly, hol- 
lowly. He walked the court-yard, tal king to 
St. Giles, and now and then slapping him on 
the shoulder, to the wonder of other more 
respectable prisoners, who much marvelled 
that a gentleman like Master Robert Willis 
could take up with such a vagabond. And 
so they walked ; and by degrees Willis laugh- 
ed less, and spoke in a low^er tone ; and it 
was plain, from the agitation of his comrade, 
that he spoke of something strange and ter- 
rible. At length St. Giles stopped short, and 
cried, “ I will hear no more — not a word more, 

I tell you. God forgive you !” 

“Why, what’s the matter, fool, butter- 
heart ?”*cried Willis. “I thought you a 
man, and you’re a cur. Ha ! ha ! all’s one 
for that and^ again Willis laughed, and 
pointed scornfuily at St. Giles, as, with face 
aghast, he walked to the further end of the 
court. Willis was about to follow him, 
when he was accosted by one of the turnkeys. 

“ Master Willis, here’s Mr. Montecute 
Crawley, the lawyer, come to talk to you 
about your defence. He’s in a great hurry; 
so, if you please, you must make haste : he’s 
so much to do, he can’t stay for nobody.” 
And the ’turnkey only spoke the truth of the 
exceeding business of Mr. Montecute Craw- 
ley, to whose silver tongue the world owed 
the liberty of many a ruffian. Happy was 
the evil-doer, whose means might purchase 
the good offices of Mr. Montecute Crawley ! 
There was no nian at the bar who could so 
completely extract the stain of blood from a 
murderer. Had he defended Sawney Bean, 
dipped a hundred times in infanticide, he 
would have presented him to the bar as a 
shepherd with the bloom and fragrance of 
Arcady upon him ! Worthy man ! What a 
constitution liad Mr.. Montecute Crawley, to 
stand the wear -and tear of his own feelings, 
racked, agonized, as they always were, for 
his innocent, his much-persecuted client, the 
homicide or highwayman at the bar ! Hap- 
pily his emotion was always so very natural, 
and so very intense, that again and again it 
touched the bosoms of the jury, v/ho could 
not — simple creatures ! — but believe so elo- 
quent, so earnest a gentleman, when he not 
only vouched for the innocence of the unfor- 
tunate accused, but wept a shower of tears 
in testimony thereof. Tears, in fact, were 
Mr. Montecute Crawley’s great weapons : 
but he had too true a notion of their value to 
use them save on extraordinary occasions. 
With all his tenderness, he had great pow- 
ers of self-restraint ; and, therefore, never 
dropt a tear upon any brief that brought him 
less than five hundred guineas. He had 
heard of “ the luxury of woe,” and was de- 
termined that with him at least the luxury 
should bear its proper price. His coarse and 
stony-hearted brethren at the bar, had, in the 
envy and brutality of their souls, nick-named 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


81 


Mr. Montecute Crawloy, ihe watering pot. 
But he — good, silver-tongued man ! — heeded 
not the miserable jest. He talked and wept, 
and wept and talked, as though he felt assured 
that all the world believed Miis words and 
tears, and that only the angels knew them to 
be false. 

And Robert Willis was now to interest the 
sympathies of Mr. Montecute Crawley, who 
had been paid the full weeping price — the 
fee being, as a junior counsel said, up to 
water-mark. The prisoner and his counsel 
were private together ; and, as the accused 
went through his simple tale, it was delight- 
ful to perceive the intelligence that beamed 
in Mr. Montecute Crawley’s eye, as though 
he spied a flaw, no wider than a spider’s 
thread, in the indictment ; and then for a mo- 
ment he would place his ample brow — writ 
and over-writ with so many acts of parlia- 
ment — in his snow-pure hand, meditating a 
legal escape. “ That’s enough,” said Mr. 
Crawley, abruptly stopping the prisoner: 

, “ I’ve made up my mind ; yes, I see it at 
once; an alibi, of course; an alibi. You 
were at the dance at the Lamb and Star: 
you’ve witnesses — yes, I know — Mr. Swag, 
your attorney, has told me all, and” — 

“And you think I shall get over it?” 
asked Willis, looking up with unabashed 
face at bis defender. Mr. Montecute Craw- 
ley slightly nodded his head: whereupon 
the prisoner, with grossest familiarity, otter- 
ed his hand. Mr. Crawley knew what was 
due to the dignity of his profession ; he, 
therefore, looked frozenly at the prisoner, re- 
buking him by that look into a proper sense 
of his infamy, and at' the same time asserting 
his own forensic consequence. “ Meant no 
offence, sir,” said the reprobate, “ but as I 
thought we met as friends, and as Master 
Wattles has promised to come down well, if 
you get me off, why I thought we might as 
well shake hands on the bargain.” 

“ It is not necessary,” said Mr. Crawley, 
with a new stock of majesty. “ And now I 
think you have told me all ? I hope so, be- 
cause I can give no further time to see you ; 
and therefore, 1 hope, for your sake, I now 
know all ? You understand me ?” 

Innocent murderer — unsophisticated as- 
sassin ! He did not understand his best de- 
fender. Deceived by what he thought a cor- 
diality of voice, a look of interest, in Mr. 
Montecute Crawley — and suddenly feeling 
that it would doubtless be for his own espe- 
cial benefit if he laid bare his heart — that 
black, bad thing — before so able, so excellent 
a gentleman, Robert Willis thought that he 
owed him every confidence, and would, there- 
fore, without further ceremony, discharge the 
debt. “ Why, no, sir,” he said, with the air 
of a man prepared to be praised for his ingen- 
uousness— “no sir, I hav’n’t told you all. 
You see, uncle — I must say it— had been a 


good sort of old fellow to me in his time : but 
somehow, he got plaguy cranky of late ; 
wouldn’t come down with the money nohow. 
And I put it to you, sir, who know what life 
is, what’s a young fellow like me to do with- 
out money ? Well, the long and short of it 
is this — I shot the old chap, and that’s the 
truth.” 

If virtue could ' have peeped into that 
prison, could at that moment have beheld the 
face of Mr. Montecute Crawley, would she 
not have embraced, have wept over her 
champion, even as he had often wept for her ? 
He started from the confessed homicide, as 
though Cain himself had risen beside him. 
“ Scoundrel ! monster ! villain !” he ex- 
claimed with passion, that must have been 
genuine, it was so violent. 

“ Bless me !” cried the prisoner. “ [ hope 
you’re not offended. You wanted to know 
all, sir.” 

“ Not that — not that, miscreant !” and Mr. 
Montecute Crawley paced up and down in 
the very greatest distress. “ Monster ! I 
leave you to your fate ; I’ll not stain my 
hands with such a brief. No — never — 
never !” 

“ You’ll not do that, sir, I’m sure,” said 
the murderer. “ much of a gentleman 
for that. ’Specially when the justice has 
come down so handsomely. And I know 
him ; that’s not all he’ll do, if you get me off!” 

“Get you off,” cried Mr. Montecute Craw- 
ley, with a disgust that did the very highest 
and deepest honor to his heart. “ What ! let 
loose a wild beast — a. man-tiger into the 
world. Monster — miscreant — miscreant !” 
with all Mr. Crawley’s enviable command of 
abuse, he lacked virtuperation wherewith to 
express the intensity of his loathing ; and he 
therefore quitted the murderer with a look 
of inexpressible scorn ; Robert Willis hav- 
ing, in his imagination, the very clearest 
view of the gallows, v/ith himself in the 
cart, wending to his inevitable destination. 
He was given up by that miracle of an 
orator, Mr. Montecute Crawley, and there 
was nothing left him but the hangman. 

Ingenious Robert Willis — unsophisticated 
homicide ! Little knew that simple murder- 
er the magnanimity of the lawyer, who 
would forget the imprudence of the blood- 
shedder, in pity for the erring fellow-creature. 
Besides, Mr. Montecute Crawley, in his 
great respect for the intellectual cravings of 
the public, could not consent to deprive a 
crowded court of his expected speech : an 
oration that, as he knew, would impart very 
considerable enjoyment to his auditors, and, 
possibly, achieve a lasting glory for himself. 
Therefore, possessed of the knowledge of the 
prisoner’s crime, it would be the business, 
the pride of Mr. Montecute Crawley to array 
him in a garb of innocence : though ever- 
lastingly stained with blood, it would be the 


82 


THE HISTORY OP 


fame of the orator to purify the assassin, 
returning him back to the world snow-white 
and sweetened. And with this determination, 
when the day of trial came, Mr. Montecute 
Crawley entered the court, amidst the flatter- 
ing admiration of all assembled. What a 
solemn man he looked ! What a champion 
of truth — what an earnest orator in the 
cause of innocence — with every line in his 
face a swelling lie ! 

And the day of trial came. St. James 
sat upon his bench in close neighborhood to 
the judge. The court was crowded. Ladies 
had dressed themselves as for a gala ; and 
when the prisoner, habited with scrupulous 
neatness, appeared at the bar, there was a 
murmur from the fair that at once acquitted 
so handsome, so finely-made a man, of such 
a naughty crime. It was impossible that 
with such a face — such very fine eyes — such 
wavy, silken hair, and above all, vvith such a 
self-assuring smile — it was impossible that 
such a creature could be stained with an old 
man’s blood. And then the gentlewomen 
looked from the prisoner to the prisoner’s 
counsel, and now beheld in his sweet gravity, 
his beautiful composure, an assurance that 
he — that eloquent and sympathetic pleader — 
was possessed as with tl;je consciousness of 
his own soul, of the guiltlessness of that op- 
pressed, that handsome young man, and 
would therefore plead with the voice and sub- 
lime fervor of a superior spirit for the accused 
at the bar. Men of every degree thronged 
the court. The gentry, the yeomen, the rus- 
tics of the county ; all prepossessed for the 
prisoner. And many were the greetings and 
shakings of the hand exchanged with the 
prisoner’s kinsman, Justice Wattles, who tried 
to look hopeful, and to speak of the trial as 
nothing more than a ceremony, necessary to 
stop the mouth of slanderous wickedness. 
And so, restless and inwardly sick at heart 
and trembling, the justice looked smilingly 
about the court ; but strangely enough, never 
looked at the prisoner at the bar. The 
prisoner gazed searchingly at the jury, and 
his eyes brightened, when he saw that Simon 
Blink, landlord of the Lamb and Star, was 
foreman of the twelve. 

The trial began. One witness swore that 
in the evening of the murder he heard a gun 
fired ; and immediately he saw the prisoner at 
the bar rush from the direction of Cow Mea- 
dow. The ball had been extracted from the 
murdered man, and found to fit a gun, the 
prisoner’s property, subsequently discovered 
in the farm-house. Every face in the court 
— even the face of Mr. Montecute Crawley 
— fell, darkened at the direct, straightforward 
evidence of the witness. He was then hand- 
ed over to be dealt with by the prisoner’s 
counsel. What awful meaning possessed 
his features, when he rose to turn inside out 
the witness ! What lightning in his eye — 


what a weight of scorn at his lip — what 
thunder in his voice, terrifying and confound- 
ing the simple man who had spoken a simple 
truth. Poor fellow ! in a few minutes he 
knew not what he had spoken ; his senses 
were distraught, lost ; he would scarcely to 
himself answer for his own consciousness, so 
much was he bewildered, flung about, made 
nothing of by that tremendous man, Mr. 
Montecute Crawley. 

“Answer me, sir,” thundered the indignant 
counsel ; “ were you never in gaol for felony ? 
Answer, sir.” 

The man paused for a moment. He never 
had been in gaol for felony — Mr. Crawley 
knew that well enough — nevertheless the 
question was put with such vehement confi- 
dence, that, honest man as he was, the wit- 
ness was for a time unable to answer. At 
length he ventured to reply that he never had 
been so imprisoned ; which reply he again 
and again repeated, warned by his counsel — 
as by the trumpet of judgment — that he was 
upon his oath. 

“ And you’ve never been caught poaching 
— come, I shall get something out of you ! 
Speak up, sir ! Upon your oath — have you 
never been caught setting wires for hares?” 
roared Mr. Crawley. 

“ Never, sir,” stammered the witness. 
“ Never caught in my life.” 

“ Ha ! you’ve been lucky, then, my fine 
fellow,” said the counsel. “ You haven’t 
been caught, that’s what you mean, eh ?” 
And at this humorous distinction, Mr. Monte- 
cute Crawley laughed — the prisoner, out of 
gratitude to his champion, laughed — all men 
in the court laughed, and the pretty ladies 
giggled. Assuredly there is no place in 
which the very smallest joke goes so far as 
in a court of justice. There, a farthing’s 
worth of wit is often taken as though it were 
an ingot. And, accepted after such value, Mr. 
Montecute Crawley was a tremendous wit. 
“ I believe, sir,” — he continued — “ come, sir, 
leave off twiddling your thumbs and look at 
me— I believe you’ve been mixed up a little 
in smuggling? Come, you don’t think there’s 
much harm in that ? You know how to 
run a tub or two, I suppose ?” 

“ No, I don’t,” answered the witness with 
new confidence. 

“ Bless me !” cried Mr. Crawley, “ you’re 
a very innocent gentleman — very innocent, 
indeed.” And then with much indignation 
at the unspotted character of the witness, he 
thundered, “ Get down, sir !” Now this 
seeming uncharitableness was, it may be 
hoped, very repulsive to the kindly nature of 
Mr. Crawley : but what he did, he did for 
the benefit of his client. To serve his client 
it was— -he held the obligation as his forensic 
creed — it was his duty to paint every witness 
against him the blackest black, that the suf- 
fering, ill-used man at the bar might stand 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


83 


out ID candid relief to the moral darkness 
frowning against him. Poor Mr. Crawley ! 
In his heart of hearts, it was to him a great 
sorrow that, for the interest of his client, he 
was sometimes compelled to wear his gown, 
the solemn robe of the champion of truth, as 
the privileged garment, holding safe the cow- 
ard and the bully. He was a gentleman — 
a most perfect gentleman — with an almost 
eifeminate sense of honor when — his gown 
was off. But when he robed himself, he 
knew that there might be dirty work to do, 
and if it must be done, why, he did it as 
though he loved it. 

All the witnesses for the prosecution, save 
one, had been examined ; and the prisoner 
looked about him with blither looks: and 
there was an interchange of triumphant 
glances between himself and valued old cro- 
nies in court, that plainly said, “ All’s right 
when St. Giles was called. Then the pris- 
oner bit his lip, and impatiently struck his 
fist upon the spikes in the front of the bar, 
and then with a hard smile — as at his folly, 
nis absence of mind — wrapt his handker- 
chief about his bleeding hand. It was noth- 
ing — a mere moment of absurd forgetfulness. 
How could he be so ridiculous! 

St. Giles was sworn. There was some- 
thing strange and solemn in that miserable 
face ; marked and lined as it was with a sad 
history. The man had been well-fed, well- 
lodged, though in a gaol. Imprisoned as a 
rogue and vagabond, he had nevertheless 
tasted of comforts that, until the crime of 
poverty and destitution was upon him, he had 
not for many a season, known ; and yet he 
looked harassed, weary, and wasted. Poor 
wretch ! He had long wrestled with him- 
self. He felt that he was cursed with 
knowledge of a secret forced upon him. It 
was another of the many unearned wrongs 
that blighted him. He hated himself that 
he had been brought to stand in that court 
an accuser of that man at the bar ; — he had 
fought against the feeling that had urged 
him to tell all — “and then, in the dead of night, 
a voice would cry in his ear, “ Murder — 
murder ! remember it is murder 1 base, bad, 
unnatural murder !” — and so, as he thought, 
to lift a load from his heart, he demanded to 
be taken to the keeper of the gaol ; and then 
to him — solemnly admonished by the prison 
chaplain — he nai . ! the terrible story that, 

in his hour of maa (ieliance, Robert Willis 
had told his fellow-prisoner. That confes- 
sion made, St. Giles felt himself a wretch, 
a traitor to the man who had put the secret 
on him ; he would have given worlds to re- 
call the story told ; it was impossible. He 
had told all. And in open court, he would 
be summoned to meet, eye to eye, the pris- 
oner ; would be required to rehearse a tale j 
that should make that man, smiling so full of I 


health and strength at the bar, a clod of 
earth. It was these thoughts that had cut 
themselves in the face of St. Giles : it Vas 
these thoughts that, like poison, struck a cold- 
ness at his heart ; made him tremble, and 
look a most forlorn and guilty wretch, when 
called upon to tell his story. 

He told all he knew. The prisoner at 
the bar had confessed to him that, stung by 
the unwillingness of his uncle to feed his 
means, he had killed the old man at such an 
hour, with such an instrument. More ; he 
had robbed him, and had hidden the dead 
man’s pocket-book somewhere near Pink- 
ton’s Corner. The prisoner had dropt a 
ring — it had always been too large for him 
— as he feared upon the spot where the old 
man fell. 

And then St. Giles was cross-examined, 
anatomized, torn to pieces by the counsel 
for the prisoner. A very few minutes, and 
so potent was the scorn, the indignation of 
Mr. Crawley, that St. Giles stood before the 
court the vilest of the vile of men ; a human 
reptile — a moral blotch ; a shame upon the 
race of Adam. The whole court looked 
upon him with wondering eyes — a monster 
of wickedness. And St. Giles felt the ig- 
nominy : it pierced him like a sword, yet with 
calm, unaltered looks he met the hatred of all 
around him. 

And with the testimony of St. Giles clos- 
ed the evidence for the prosecution. Twen- 
ty witnesses for the prisoner proved that it 
was impossible he could have beennear Cow 
Meadow at the time of the murder : no ; he 
was at a merry-making at the Lamb and 
Star. Again, every inch of Pinkton’s Cor- 
ner had been searched, and there was no 
pocket book : another proof — if such indeed 
were needed — of the diabolic malice of St. 
Giles, who, it was plain, to cloak his own in- 
famy with some small credit, hoped to des- 
troy the prisoner. Mr, Montecute Crawley 
had been exceedingly moved by this tremen- 
dous evidence of the iniquity of man : whilst 
cross-examining St. Giles, the counsel, 
touching upon what he termed the apocry- 
phal pocket-book, had wept ; yes, had suffer- 
ed large round tears to “ course down his in- 
nocent nose,” to the lively concern of the 
court ; and, more especially, to the emotion 
of many ladies, who>vrept in sympathy with 
that sweet man — that soft-hearted barrister. 

The judge summed up the evidence ; and 
the jury, after the pause of perhaps two 
minutes — their verdict was already smiling 
in their faces — through their ready foreman, 
Simon Blink, acquitted the prisoner. Robert 
Willis was — Not Guilty ! What a shout 
rose from the court. It was in vain that the 
judge looked angrily around him : there 
I was another huzza ; another, and another 
1 Friends and neighbors shook each other by 


84 


THE HISTORY OP 


the hand ; and all blessed the admirable Mr. 
Crawley, the excellent judge, the upright 
and most manly jury ! The hubbub sudden- 
ly ceased, and wherefore 1 Men were touch- 
ed into respectful silence ; and why ? Oh, 
the scene was most impressive ; for Mr. 
Justice Wattles — an old, and most respecta- 
ble magistrate — ‘entered the prisoner’s dock ; 
and there, in the face of the world, em- 
braced his innocent kinsman — folded to his 
heart the pure, the spotless, the acquitted. 
And then Robert Willis left the ' gaol ; and 
the multitude without shouted their sympa- 
thy and gratitude. 

St, Giles remained within the prison His 
term of captivity was ended; yet, out of 
compassion for his misery, the governor 
would permit him to remain until night-fall, 
when he might depart unseen. Did he show 
himself in open day — such was the belief of 
the people of the gaol— the mob would tear him 
piecemeal. He had tried to hang an inno- 
cent man ; would hare shed the blood of the 
noblest creature in the county ; and burning 
alive was a fate too good for him. And thus 
St. Giles was spurned and execrated. Shut 
up with felons, he was shunned by them as 
something monstrous; a demon, for whom 
they had no words save those of cursing and 
contempt. St. Giles, with a crushed heart, 
walked the court-yard. A few paces were 
tacitly allowed him by his fellow-prisoners ; 
and he walked, in misery, apart from all. It 
was a beautiful summer’s evening, and he 
paused, and with glassy, vacant eye, surv^ey- 
ed a swarm of insects dancing and whirling 
in that brief, bright world of tlieirs, a sun- 
beam in a gaol. “ A gentleman wants to 
speak to you,” said one of the turnkeys, look- 
ing contemptuously at the witness for the 
crown. “Come this way.” St. Giles obey- 
ed the order, and entering the body of the 
prison, found there his former benefactor, 
young St James, 

“ You are the man who gave evidence 
against the person tried to-day for murder,” 
said St. James. 

“ Yes, sir; and I spoke the truth : the very 
words the man said to me, I — ” 

“ It is no matter. I did not send for you 
on that bad business. You and I have met 
before ? How is it that I find you in this 
place ]” 

“ I had no place to lay my head in — not a 
penny, only what your honor’s goodness gave 
me, to buy a crumb ; and so for that reason, 
after I’d been hauled up, as they said, for 
killing a man that was afterwards found 
alive, they sent me here. But bless you, 
kind gentleman ! for your goodness to me. 
I hav’n’t been without doing wrong in my 
time, sir, I know that: but the world, sir, 
hasn’t dealt kindly with me, nohow ; it hasn’t, 
indeed, sir.” 


“ Where do you come from ?” asked St 
James. 

“ I come, sir, from” — and St. Giles stam- 
mered — “ I come from abroad.” 

“ And you are willing to earn honest bread ? 

Is it so?” said his lordship. 

“ Oh, sir 1” cried St. Giles, “ if I might only 
have the chance ! But it’s a hard case to 
put a man a — a hard case to deny a misera- 
ble cretur honest bread, and then if he don’t 
starve without a word, like a rat in a hole, to ... 
send him here to gaol. I say it, sir ; I’ve had 
my sins — God pardon ‘em — but I’ve' been 
roughly treated sir ; roughly treated.” 

“ I hope to think so,” said St. James. “I 
may be wTong ; but what I have seen of you 
to-day induces me to trust you. I want to 
know nothing of your history ; nothing of the 
past. All I expect is an honest future. If 
you can promise this, you shall enter my ser- 
vice, and so stand upright again in the world. 

•“ I do promise, sir — with all my heart and 
soul — with all” — but the poor fellow could 
speak no more ; tears poured down his face ; 
tears choked his speech. 

“ Here is money. Get yourself decent 
covering, and make your way to London. 
When there, present yourself at my house. 
Send this card to me, and I will see what may 
be done for you ; remember, I depend upon 
your good resolution, that I may not be 
lauoh(^ at for hiring a servant from a gaol.” 
With these words, St. James quitted the 
prison, leaving St. Giles, bewildered, lost in 
happiness. He glanced at the card, saw the 
name — the name of that noble, gracious boy, 
who had before preserved him — and the poor 
convict fell upon his knees, and with a grate- 
ful, bursting heart, prayed for his protector. 

Let us now, for a brief space, shift the 
scene to the Lamb and Star. It was ten at 
night, and the house was crammed with revel- 
lers, all met to celebrate the triumph of in- 
jured innocence — to drink and drink the at- 
tested purity of Robert Willis. What stories 
were told of his spirit, his address, his gal- 
lantrv ! — how often, too, were curses called 
down upon the head of him who would have 
spilt such guiltless blood ! — how often did 
the drinkers wish they had St. Giles among 
them, that they might tear him to bits — yes, 
limb him for his infamy ! And ere Uie night 
passed they had their wish ; for St. Giles en- 
tered the Lamb and Star, and called with the 
confidence of a customer about him. But 
who was to know St. Giles in the neatly- 
dressed, trim-looking groom — ^the tall, clean- 
faced looking young fellow — that took his 
mug of ale from the hands of Becky, and 
nodded so smilingly at her? True it is, the 
girl stared ; the blood rushed about her face ; 
and darting from the room, she cried to her- 
self, “ It is — it is ! the Lord preserve us” — • 
but Becky looked with womanly eyes, and 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


85 


remembered the ragged outcast in the spruce 
serving-man. In a few moments she return- 
ed to the room, and whilst she affected to 
give change to St. Giles, she said in a low, 
agitated voice — “ I know you — they’ll know 
you, too, soon ; and then they’ll have your 
life : go away : if you love — if you love 
yourself go away ! What a man you are ! 
what brings you here ?” 

“Just this little'" remembrance,*’ said St. 
Giles, “ for you got yourself into trouble for 
helping me: just this odd little matter ; keep 
it for my sake, wench,” and he placed a 
little silken huswife in her hand. 

“ Law !” said Becky, “ [ didn’tdo anything 
for you that I wouldn’t ha’ done for anybody 
else ; still I will keep this, anyhow and 
Becky again blushing, again ran from the 
room. At the same moment, there was a 
shout outside the house of ^ Master Willis — 
Master Willis,” and loud and long were the 
huzzas that followed. The door was flung 
open, and Willis, franticly drunk, rushed in, 
followed by several of his companions, who 
with him had celebrated the triumph of the day. 
Willis threw himself into a chair, and called for 
“ a thousand bowls of punch” — and then he 
would have a song— -and then he would have 
all the village girls roused up, and dance the 
night through. 

Great was the respect felt by the landlord 
of the Lamb and Star for Mr. Willis : never- 
theless. the tumult rose to such a height, that 
Blinkj^with bending back, and in the very 
softest voice, begged of his honor not to in- 
sist upon a dance so late at night. Willis, 
with a death-pale face, his hair disordered — 
his eyes stupidly rolling — glared and hiccup- 
ped, and snapt his fingers at the nose of the 
landlord. 

“ Now, squire, do be advised, do indeed — 
you’ll hurt your health, squire, if you’ve any 
more to-night, I know you will,” said Blink. 

“You know!” shouted Willis — “Mug- 
head ! what do you know ? Yes — ha I ha I 
ha ! — you’re a pretty conjurer, you are. You 
know ! Ha ! you were the foreman of the 
jury, I believe ? A pretty foreman — a pre- 
cious jury ! And you found me Not Guilty I 
Fool! nincompoop — ass! Here — I want to 
say something to you. Closer — a little 
closer.” Blink approached still nearer to the 
drunken madman, when the ruffian spat in 
his face ; he then roared a laugh, and 
shouted — “ that for you ! I killed the old fel- 
low — I did it — damn me, I did it.” And the 
wretch trying to rise from his chair, fell pros- 
trate to the ground ; whilst all in the room 
shrunk with horror from the self-denounced 
homicide. 


CHAPTER XV . 

Every guest of the Lamb and Star bore 
away the confession of the assassin ; and full 
soon scornful, loathing looks beset the path 
of Robert Willis. The gossiping villagers 
would stand silent, eyeing him askance, as 
he passed them. The dullest hind would 
return his nod and good-morrow with a sul- 
len, awkward air. Even little children cow- 
ered from him, huddling about their mothers, 
as the gay homicide would pat their heads, 
and give them pennies. It did not serve, 
that Robert Willis, with a roaring laugh, de- 
clared the whole a jest — a drunken frolic 
just to make folks stare. It served not that 
he would loudly and laboriously chuckle “to 
think how he had made Blink shake — and 
how with just a word or so, he had taken 
every body in.” No : the confession of the 
murderer had sunk into the hearts of his 
hearers : the tale spread far and wide, and 
not even butts of ale — and Willis tried that 
Lethe — would drown the memory of it. 
And so in brief time, the miserable wretch 
was left alone with the fiends. A few, out 
of pure love of the liquor he bestowed, would 
still have doubted the blood-guiltiness of 
their patron ; but even they could not long 
confront the reproaches of their fellows. 
And so, with a late and hesitating virtue, 
they wiped their lips of the murderer’s malt, 
and consented to believe him very bad in- 
deed. Willis, as one by one dropt from him, 
grew fiercely confident ; battling with brazen 
brow the looks of all. Unequal fight ! The 
devil is a coward in the end ; and so, afer a 
show of scornful opposition, the poor cowed 
fiend gave up the contest, and Robert Willis 
went no man knew where. A sad blow 
was this to Justice Wattles. That he 
should have spent so much money on so 
hopeless a creature ! That he should have 
gone to the heavy expense of Mr. Montecute 
Crawley ! That at so vast a price he should 
have saved his kinsman from the gibbet— 
when the desperate fool had hung himself 
in the opinion of all men ! It would have 
been better, far cheaper, to let truth take its 
course — but then there was the respectability 
of the family ! After all, it was some poor 
consolation to the puzzled justice, that how- 
ever a Willis might have deserved the gal- 
lows, he had escaped it: opinion was a herd 
thing ; but at the hardest it was not tight- 
ened hemp. Nobody could say that a 
Willis was ever hanged. Truth, after all, 
had not been sacrificed for nothing ; and that 
was some comfort at the least. 

In due course, the Kent wagon brought 
St. Giles to London. It was about five 
o’clock on a bright summer morning when 
St. Giles with rapturous eyes looked upon 
the borough. Yes, he had returned to his 
hard-nursing mother, London. She had 


8G 


THE HISTORY OF 


taught him to pick and steal, and lie, and yet 
a child, to anticipate the iniquities of men ; 
and then — foolish guilty mother ! — she liad 
scourged her youngling for his naughtiness ; 
believing by the severity of her chastisement 
best to, show her scorn of vice, her love of 
goodness. And St. Giles, as the wagon 
crawled along, lay full length upon the 
straw, and mused upon the frequent haunts of 
his early days. Sweet and balmy sweet such 
thoughts ! Refreshing to the soul, jaded 
and fretful from the hght of men, to slake 
its thirst for peace and beauty, at the foun- 
tain of memory, when childhood seemed to' 
have played with angels. What a luxury of 
the heart, to cast off' the present like a foul, 
begrimed garment, and let the soul walk 
awhile in the naked innocence of the past ! 
Here is the scene of a happy childhood. It 
is full of gracious shapes — a resurrection of 
the gentle, beautiful. We have lain in that 
field, and thought the lark — a trembling, flut- 
tering speck of song above us — must be 
very near to God. That field is filled with 
sweetest memories, as with flowers. And 
there is an old — old tree. How often have 
we climbed it, and, throned amid its boughs, 
have read a wondrous book ; a something 
beating like a drum at our heart ; a some- 
thing that, confusing us with a dim sense of 
glory, has filled our soul with a strange, 
fitful music, as with the sounds of a far-com- 
ing triumph ! Such may be the memories 
of a happy youth. And what, as St. Giles, 
with his face leaning on his propped hands, 
gazed from the wagon, what, seeing the 
scenes of his childhood — what saw he ? 
Many things big with many thoughts. 

Yes ; how well he knew that court ! Six- 
and-tliirty hours’ hunger had raged in his 
vitals, and with a desperate plunge he had 
dived into a pocket. It was empty. But 
the would-be-thief was felt and hotly pursued. 
He turned up that court. He was very 
young, then; and, like a fool, knew not the 
ins-and-outs of the borough. He ran up the 
court ; there was no outlet ; and the young 
thief was caught like a stoat in a trap. And 
now St. Giles sees the joy of his pursuer ; 
and almost feels the blow the good, indignant 
man, dealt as with a flail upon the half- 
naked child. Ay, and it was at that post, 
that his foot slipped when he was chased by 
the beadle for stealing two potatoes from a 
dealer’s sack. Yes ; and opposite that very 
house, the beadle laid about him with his 
cane ; and there it was that the big, raw- 
boned, painted woman, tore him from the 
beadle’s grasp; and giving him a penny, 
told him with an oath to run for very life. 
Such were the memories — ^yes, every turn- 
ing had such — that thronged upon St. Giles, 
gazing in thought upon his childhood days, 
from the Kent wagon. 

And then happier thoughts possessed our 


hero. He looked again and again at the 
card given him by St. James ; and that bit 
of paper with its few words was a talisman 
to his soul ; a written spell that threw a 
beauty and a brightness about the meanest 
things of London. Human life moved about 
him full of hope and dignity. He had — 
or would have — an interest in the great 
game — how great and how small ! — of men. 
He would no longer be a man-woJf; a 
wretched thing to hunt and be hunted. He 
would know the daily sweets of honest 
bread, and sleep the sleep of peace. What 
a promotion in the scale of life ! What 
unhoped felicity, to be permitted to be hon- 
est, gentle! What a saving mercy, to be 
allowed to walk upright with those he 
might begin to look upon as fellow crea- 
tures I And as St. Giles thought of this, 
gratitude melted his very bein^, and he 
could have fallen upon his knees on London 
stones, in thankfulness and penitence. Sol- 
itude to him had been a softening teacher. 
Meditation had come upon him in the far 
wilds ; and the isolated, badged, and toiling 
felon for the first time thought of the mys- 
tery of himself; for the first time dared to 
look in upon his heart — a look that some 
who pass for bold men sometimes care not 
to take — and he resolved to fight against 
what seemed his fate. He would get back 
to the world. Despite of the sentence that 
bade him not to hope, he would hope. 
Though doomed to be a life-long human 
instrument, a drudging carcass, he would 
win back his manhood — he would return to 
life a self-respecting being. And this will 
beat, constant as a pulse, within him. And 
these feelings, though the untutored man 
could give them no harmonious utterance, 
still sustained and soothed him ; and now, 
in London streets, made most hopeful music 
to his soul. 

And St. Giles passed through old familiar 
places, and would not ponder on the misera- 
ble memories that thronged them. No ; 
with a strong will, he laid the rising ghosts 
of his boyish days, and went with growing 
stoutness on. He was bound for St. James’ 
square, and the way before him was a path 
of pleasure. How changed was London- 
bridge ! To his boyhood it had been a 
mass of smoked, grimed stone ; and now it 
seemed a shape of grace and beauty. He 
looked, too, at the thousand ships that, 
wherever the sea rolled with mute gigantic 
power told the strength, the wealth, and en- 
terprise of England. He looked, and would 
not think of the convict craft, laden with 
crimes, and wrong, and blasphemy, that had 
borne him to his doom. He passed along, 
through Lombard-street to the bank; and 
he paused and smiled as he thought of the 
time when the plase seemed to him a place 
of awful splendor; a visible heaven, and 


87 


ST.^ GILES A] 

they he thought who went for moneys, 
there, “angels ascending and descending;” 
and above all, what a glory it would be to 
him — a fame surpassing all burglarious re- 
novyn — to rob that Bank of England. And 
then he saw the Mansion-house ; and 
thought of the severe and solemn alderman 
who had sentenced him to Bridewell. And 
then St. Giles passed along Cheapside, and 
stood before St. Paul’s church, and then for 
the first time felt somewhat of its tremen- 
dous beauty. It had been to him a mere 
mountain of stone, with a clock upon it : 
and now, he felt himself subdued, refined, 
as the cathedral, like some strange harmony, 
sank into his soul. He thought, too, of 
Christ and the fishermen and tentmakers 
Christ had glorified — for be had learned to 
read of them when a felon in the wilderness 
— and his heart glowed with Christian fer- 
vor at Christ’s temple — that visible glory 
made and dedicated to the purposes of the 
Great Teacher — most mighty in his gentle- 
ness, most triumphant by his endurance, 
most adorable by the charity that he taught 
to men, as the immortal link to hold them 
still to God ! Could expressions have 
breathed upon the thoughts of St. Giles, thus 
he might have delivered himself. He spoke 
not: but stood gazing at the church, and 
thinking what a blessing it was upon a land, 
wherein temples for such purposes abound- 
ed ; where solemn men set themselves 
apart from the sordid ways of life, keeping 
their minds calm and undefiled from the 
chink and touch of money-bags, to heed of 
nothing but the fainting, bleeding, erring 
hearts of those who had dwelt upon the 
earth as though the earth had never a 
grave. Yes : it was a blessing to breathe 
in such a land. It was a destiny demand- 
ing a daily prayer of thankfulness, to know 
tliat Christian charity was preached from a 
thousand and a thousand pulpits ; to feel 
that the spirits of the apostles, their earn- 
est truthful spirits, (ere solemnized by in- 
spiration,) still animated bishops, deans, and 
rectors, and even cast a glory on the worn 
coats of how many thousand curates ! St. 
Giles, the returned transport! — the ignorant 
and sinning man : St. Giles, whose inno- 
cence of childhood had been offered to the 
Moloch selfishness of society — even St. Giles 
felt all this ; and with swelling heart and 
the tears in his throat, passed down Lud- 
gate-hill, with a fervent devotion, thanking 
his God who had brought him from the land 
of cannibals to the land of Christians. 

And now is St. Giles aroused by a 
stream of people passing upward and down- 
ward, and as though led by one purpose 
turning into the Old Bailey. “What’s this 
crowd about ?” he asked of one, and ere he 
was answered, he saw far down at Newgate 


TD ST. JAMES. 

door a scaffold and a beam; and a mass of 
human creatures, crowded like bees, gazing 
upon them. — “What’s this?” a'gain asked 
St. Giles, and he felt the sickness of death 
upon him. 

“What’s this?” answered a fellow with 
a sneering leer^“Why, where do you 
come from to ask that? Why, it’s king 
George’s new drop, and this is the first day 
he’s going to try it. No more hanging at 
Tyburn now ; no more drinks of ale at the 
Pound. It’s all now to be the matter of a 
minute, they say. But it will never answer, 
it never does ; any of these new-fangled 
things. Nothing like the old horse and 
cart, take my word for it. Besides all 
London could see something of the show 
when they went to Tyburn, while next to 
nobody can be accommodated in the Old 
Bailey. But it serves me right. If I 
hadn’t got so precious drunk last night, I’d 
been up in time to have got a place near the 
gallows. Silence I There goes 8 o’clock.” 

And as the hour was struck by the bells 
of Christian churches — of churches built in 
Christ’s name, who conquered vengeance by 
charity — men were led forth to be strangled 
by men, their last moments soothed and 
made hopeful by Christ’s clergyman. In- 
deed, it is long and hard teaching, to make 
nations truly read the Testament they boast 
of. 

There was a sudden hush among the 
crowd, and St. Giles felt himself rooted 
where he stood with gaping mouth, and eyes 
glaring towards Newgate. The criminals, 
trussed for the grave came out. “ One — 
two — three — four — five — six — seven ” — : 
cried St. Giles in a rising scream, number- 
ing the wretches as each passed to his place 
— “ eight — nine — ten — Good God f how 
many ? ” — and terror-stricken, he could 
count no further. 

And then the last night’s bacchanal next 
St. Giles took up the reckoning, counting 
as he would have counted so many logs of 
wood, so many sacks of coals. — “ Eight — 
nine — ten — eleven — twelve — thirteen — four- 
teen — fifteen. That’s all; yes, it was to 
be fifteen : that little chap’s the last. Fif- 
teen.” 

Reader, pause a moment. Drop not the 
book with sudden indignation at the writer 
who to make the ingredients of his story 
“thick and slab,” invents this horror. No; 
he but copies from the Chronicles of the 01(P 
Bailey. Turn to them, incredulous reader, 
and you will find that on the balmy morning 
of the twenty-third of June, in the year of 
our Offended Lord, one thousand seven 
hundred and eighty-four, fifteen human be- 
ings were hanged in front of Newgate; 
death-offerings to the laws and virtues of 
merry England. It was the first day, too, of 


88 


THE HISTORY OF 


the new drop ; and the novel engine must 
be greeted with a gallant number. Fame 
has her laurels: why should not Justice 
have her ropes 1 There was, too, a pleas- 
antry — the devil, if he joke at all, must 
joke after some such fashion — in trying ihe 
substance and capacity of a new gallows, 
by so much weight of human flesh con- 
vulsed in the death-struggle. And , so — 
great was the legislative wit ! — there were 
fifteen to be strangled. A great example 
this to an erring, law-breaking world of — 
the strength of timber ! 

The lords of the privy council had met, 
with good king George the Third at their 
head, to correct the vices of the land. 
There was death for the burglar — death for 
the footpad — death for the sheep-stealer — 
death, death, death for a hundred different 
sinners. The hangman was the one phy- 
sician, and was thought to cure all peccant 
ills. Horrible, ghastly quack ! And yet 
the kings’s majesty believed in the hideous 
mountebank, and every week, by the advice 
of his lords of the council — the wise men of 
St James’, the magi of the kingdom, the 
starred and gartered philosophers and phil- 
anthropists — every week did sacred royalty 
call in Jack Ketch to cure his soul-sick 
children! Yea; it was with the hang- 
man’s fingers that the father of the people 
touched the People’s Evil. And if in sooth 
whe malady was not allayed, it was for no 
lack of paternal tending, since we find in 
the Old Bailey Register — that thing of 
blood, and bigotry, and ignorance — that, in 
one little year, in almost the first twelve- 
month of the new drop, the hangman was 
sent to ninety-six wretches, who were pub- 
licly cured of their ills in the front of .New- 
gate! And the king in council thought 
there was no such remedy for crime as the 
grave ; and therefore, by the counsel of his 
privy sages, failed not to prescribe death- 
warrants. To reform man was a tedious 
and uncertain labor : now hanging was the 
sure work of a minute. 

Oh, that the ghosts of all the martyrs of 
the Old Bailey — and, though our profession 
of faith may make some moral antiquarians 
stare, it is our invincible belief that the 
Newgate calendar has its black array of 
martyrs; victims to ignorance, perverse- 
ness, prejudice; creatures doomed by the 
bigotry of the council table ; by the old 
haunting love of blood as the best cure for 
the worst ills ! Oh, that the faces of all 
these could look from Newgate walls ! that 
but for a moment the men who stickle for 
the laws of death as for some sweet house- 
hold privilege, might behold the grim mis- 
take ; the awful sacrilegious blunder of the 
past, and seeing, making amendment for the 
future. 


A few minutes, and fifteen human crea- 
tures sanctified with immortal souls, were 
carcases. The wisdom of the King and 
lords in council was made m-anifest to the 
world by fifteen scare-crows to guilt, pend- 
ent and swaying to and fro. A few mimftes, 
and the heart of London, aye, of the Old Bai- 
ley, beat equably as before. The criminals 
were hanged, cut down, and the mob separa- 
ted only to meet — if it should again please 
the wisdom of the king in council — for a like 
show on the next Monday ; Saint Monday 
being in the good old hempen times, the 
hangman’s special saint’s-day. 

The sufferers were scarcely dead, when 
St. Giles staggered like a drunken man from 
the crowd. He made his way down Lud- 
gate-hill, and sick and reeling, proceeded up 
Fleet-street. He saw, he felt, that people 
stared at him ; and the thought that he was 
an escaped felon — that if detected he would 
as surely rehearse the bloody scene, as 
surely as those fifteen corses scarce done 
struggling — seemed to wither him. He 
stumbled against a post ; then, 'for a moment 
gathering energy for the effort, he turned 
up Shoe-lane, and entered a public-house. 
“A mug of water, master,” he asked of the 
landlord. 

“It’s a liquor we don’t sell,” said the 
“ host, and I can’t afford to give it away. 
Water! I should think a dram of brandy 
would be better for your complaint. Why, 
you look like a blue-bag. Got no catching- 
sickness, I hope 1 If so, be so good as to go 
to another house. I’ve never yet had a 
day’s illness, and I don’t intend to have.” 

“Nothing but a little faint, master. 1 
passed just now, by the Old Bailey, and — 
and it’s been too much for me.” 

“Well, you must have a coddled sort of 
heart, you must. I should have gone my- 
self, only I couldn’t leave the bar ; for they 
don’t hang fifteen every day, and — why, if 
now you ain’t as white as if you’d run from 
the gallows yourself.” 

“Water, master — water,” cried St. Gilts 
— and for the brandy, I’ll take that afct:- 
wards.” 

“Better take it first,” said the landlord, 

“ but that’s your business. Well, I shouldn’t 
much like such customers as you,” he add- 
ed, as St. Giles hastily quaffed the lymph. 
“Now, do take some of the real stuff; or, 
with that cold rubbish, you’ll give yourself 
the aygur ;” and the host pressed the brandy. 

“In a minute; I’ll just sit down a bit,” 
said St. Giles, and taking the brandy, he 
entered a side-room. It was empty. Seat- 
ing himself, with the untasted liquor before 
him, he again >saw the vision that had ap- 
palled and rooted him in the Old Bailey. 
He could swear to it; it was clear to his. 
eye as his own hand. All but himself had * 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


89 


beheld fifteen felons on the drop, but he had 
seen sixteen ; and the last, the sixteenth, 
was himself : yes, if in a glass he had ever 
seen himself. True : it was but a vision — 
but a vision that foreshadowed a horrid truth. 
He had escaped from captivity to be hanged 
for tlie crime. All the bright promises of the 
morning had vanished, and, in the bitterness 
of his thoughts, he already sat in the gloom 
of Newgate. Thus sunk in misery, he was 
unconscious of the entrance of a visitor, who, 
in a few moments, startled him with a greet- 
ing. 

“ Been to the Jug, mate ? A cruel fine 
day to be hanged on, isn’t it ?” asked the new- 
comer. 

St. Giles looked at the speaker, who sud- 
denly recoiled from his -glance, as from the 
glare of some wild beast. “ Why, what’s 
the matter ?” asked the man. “ Do you think 
you’ll know me again, that you stare in that 
way? Perhaps you do know me ?” 

“ Not at all, friend ; not at all ; though 
coming suddenly, you startled me a little at 
first.” But instantly, St. Giles recognized 
his old master and tempter, Tom Blast. Vice 
had cut still deeper lines in his wicked face ; 
time had crowned him with its most horrid 
crown, grey hairs upon a guilty head ; time 
sat heavily upon his back, yet St. Giles knew 
his early tutor ; knew the villain who had 
snared his boyhood, making him a doomed 
slave for his natural life. Fierce thoughts 
rose in the heart of St. Giles, as he gazed 
upon the traitor who had sold him ; a mo- 
ment, and he could have dipped his hands in 
that old man’s blood ; another instant, and he 
looked upon him with compassion, with deep- 
est pity. The villain saw the change, and 
took new confidence. 

“ It’s lucky times for you, mate, if you can 
tipple brandy. If I’ve had nothing but five- 
farthino- beer since Tuesday, may I be pison- 
ed !” 

You may have this, for me,” said St. 
Giles, and he gave Blast the brandy, which 
the old knave greedily swallowed. 

“ Should like to meet with one o’ your sort 
every day,” cried Blast, smacking his lips. 
“ Never saw your like afore.” 

Indeed ?” asked St. Giles, who, from the 
tone and manner of Blast, felt himself secure 
of discovery. “ Indeed ?” 

“ No, never. You couldn’t tell me where 
I could see you to-morrow ?” asked Blast. 

“ Why, where may you be found — where 
do you live ?” questioned St. Giles, quickly. 

“ Oh, I live at Horsleydown ; but I so like 
the look o’ you, mate. I’ll meet you here,” an- 
swered Blast. “ I’m agreeable to anything.” 

“ Very well,” said St. Giles, say at twelve 
o’clock ; we’ll have another glass. Stay, you 
can have another now ; here’s sixpence for 
the treat. I must go ; good bye and St. 


Giles was hurrying away, when Blast seized 
him by the hand, and whilst our hero shrunk 
and shook at his touch, swore that he was a 
good fellow, and a regular king. St. Giles, 
releasing himself, retreated quickly from the 
house, casting frequent looks behind that he 
might not be followed by his former friend, 
whom, it was his hope, despite of the en- 
gagement of the morrow, never to behold 
again. Nevertheless, St. Giles had yearned 
to have some further speech with Blast. 
Half-a-dozen times the words were at his lips, 
and then the fear of the chance of detection 
kept him dumb. And then again he repent- 
ed that he had not risked the peril, that he 
might at once have known the fate of his 
mother. He had heard no word of her. 
Was she dead ? Remembering what was her 
life, he almost hoped so. Yet she was the 
only creature of his blood and, if still living, 
it would be to him some solace — something 
to link him anew to her — to snatch her old 
age from the horrors that defiled it. With 
these thoughts, St. Giles took his way up the 
Strand, and feeling a strange pleasure in the 
daring, was soon in Bow-street. He ap- 
proached the office : the judgment-seat where 
he was arraigned for his maiden theft. There 
at the door, playing with his watch-chain — 
with almost the same face, the same cut 
clothes, the same flower in his mouth, of 
fifteen years before — stood Jerry Whistle, 
officer and prime thief-taker. A sort of 
human blood-hound, as it seemed, expressly 
fashioned by madam nature, to watch and 
seize on evil-doers. He appeared to be sent 
into this world with a peculiar nose for rob- 
bers ; scenting them through all their doub- 
lings, though they should put seas between 
him and them. And Jerry performed his 
functions v/ith such extreme good-humor, 
seized upon a culprit with such great good- 
nature, that it appeared impossible that death 
should end a ceremony so cordially began. 
Jerry Whistle would take a man to Newgate 
as to a tavern ; a place wherein human na- 
ture might with the fattest and the strongest 
enjoy itself. 

As St. Giles approached Whistle, he 
thought that worthy officer, learned as he was 
in human countenances, eyed him with a 
look of remembrance; whereupon, with a 
wise boldness, St. Giles stepped up to him, 
and asked the way to Seven Dials. “ Straight 
ahead, my tulip, and ask again,” said Jerry ; 
and he continued to suck his pink and chink 
his watch-chain. 

In a few minutes, St. Giles was in Short’s 
Gardens. He looked upwards at the third 
floor ; where his first friend, Mrs. Aniseed, 
had carried him to her gentle-hearted lord. 
Bright Jem. It was plain they were tenants 
there no longer. The windows, always 
bright, were crusted with dust; two were 


90 


THE HISTORY OF 


broken and patched with paper. And there 
was no flower-pot, with its three-pennyworth 
of nature from Covent-garden ; no singing- 
bird. St. Giles, with a sinking of the heart, 
passed on. It was plain he had lost a part 
of something that, in his hours of exile, had 
.made England so fair a land of promise to 
him. He turned his steps towards Seven 
Dials. He would look at the shop of the 
muffin-maker : of course he could not make 
himself known — at least not just now — to 
thatsweei-and-bitter philanthropist, Capstick : 
but would be something to see how time 
had dealt with him. A short space, and St. 
Giles approached the door ; the very threshold 
he had crossed with basket and bell. Cap- 
stick had departed ; no muffin graced the 
window. The shop was tenanted by a small 
undertaker ; a tradesman who had to higgle 
with the poor for his price of laying that eye- 
sore, poverty, in the arms of the maternal 
earth who, least partial of all mothers, treats 
her offspring all alike. “ Can he be dead ?” 
thought St. Giles, for the moment uncon- 
sciously associating his benefactor with the 
emblems of mortality ; as though death had 
come there, and edged the muffin-maker out. 
Ere he could think another thought, St. Giles 
stood in the shop. The master, whistling a 
jig of the time, was at his work, driving tin 
tacks into a baby’s coffin. The pawnbroker 
would have another gown — a blanket, it 
might be — for those tin tacks ; but that was 
nothing : why should wealth claim all the 
pride of the world, even w'here pride is said 
to leave us — at the grave ? 

“Do you know whether Mr. Capstick’s 
alive ?” asked St. Giles of the whistling work- 
man. 

“Can’t say, I’m sure,” answered the under- 
taker. “ I only know I’ve not yet had the 
luck of burying him.” 

“ I mean the muffin-maker, who lived here 
before you,” said -St. Giles; “you knew' 
him.” 

“ I’ve heard of him, but never seen him — 
never want. He was a tailor as was ruined 
last here. I say,” — cried the undertaker, 
with an intended joke in his eye — “ I say, 
you don’t want anything in my way ?” 

St. Giles, making no answer, stept into the 
street. He then paused. Should he go for- 
ward ? He should have no luck that day, 
and he would seek no further. And while 
he so determined, he moved towards his na- 
tive nook — the fetid, filthy corner, in which 
he first smelt what was called the air. He 
walked towards Hog-Lane. 

Again and again did he pass it. Again 
and again did he approach St. Giles’s Church, 
and gaze upon the clock. It was only ten ; 
too early — he was sure of that — to present 
himself in St. James’s Square. Otheryvise 
he would first go there, and return to the 


Lane under cover of the night. He then 
crossed the way, and looked up the lane. He 
saw not a face he knew. All he had left 
were dead ; and new tenants, other wretches, 
fighting against want, and gin, and typhus, 
were preparing new loam for the church-yard. 
No : he would not seek now. He would come 
in the evening — it would be the best time, the 
very best. 

With this feeling, St. Giles turned away, 
and was proceeding slowly onward, when he 
paused at a shop-window. In a moment, he 
felt a twitch at his pocket, and turning, he saw 
a child of some eight or ten years old, carry- 
ing away a silk handkerchief that Becky, in 
exchange for the huswife, had forced upon 
him. How sudden, and how great was St. 
Giles’s indignation at the villain thief ! Never 
had St. Giles felt so strongly virtuous ! The 
pigmy felon flew towards Hog-Lane ; and in 
a moment, St. Giles followed him and stood 
at the threshold of the house wherein the 
thief had taken shelter. St. Giles was about 
to enter, when he was suddenly stopt by a 
man — that man was Tom Blast. 

“Well, if this isn’t luck!” said Blast spread- 
ing himself in the door-way, to secure the re- 
treat of the thief. “ Who’d ha’ thought we 
should ha’ met so soon ?” 

“ All’s one for that,” said St. Giles. “I’ve 
been robbed, and the young thief’s here, and 
you know it.” 

“ A thief here ! Mind what you’re about, 
young man ; do mind what you say, afore 
you take away the character of an honest 
house. We’ve nothin’ here but our good 
name to live upon, and so do mind what 
you’re about.” And Blast uttered this with 
such mock earnestness, looked so knowingly 
in the face of St. Giles, that unconsciously 
he shrank from the speaker ; who continued : 
“ Is it likely now, that you could think any- 
body in this Lane would pick a gentleman’s 
pocket ? Bless your heart ! we're all so 
honest here, we are,” and Blast laughed. 

“ I thought you told me,” said St. Giles, 
confused, “ that you lived somewhere away 
at Horsley down.” 

“ Lor love you ! folks as are poor like us, 
have, you know, a dozen town-houses ; be- 
sides country ones under hedges and hay- 
stacks. We can easily move about : we 
haven’t much to stop us. And now, to busi- 
ness. You’ve really lost your handkercher ?” 

“ Tisn’t that I care about it,” said St Giles, 
“ only you see ’twas given me by somebody.’' 

“ Given ! To be sure. Folks do give away 
things, don’t they? All the world’s gone 
mad, I think, people do so give away.” St. 
Giles s heart fell at the laughing, malignant 
look with which Blast gazed upon him. It 
was plain that he was once again in the hands 
of his master ; again in the power of the devil 
that had first sold him. “ Howsomevei*” 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 9l 


continued Blast, “ if you’ve really been robbed, 
and the thief’s in this house, shall I go and 
fetch a officer ? You don’t think, sir, do you” 

■ — and Blast grinned and bowed his head — 
“ you don’t think, sir, as how I'd pertect any- 
body as had broke the laws of my native 
land ? Is it likely ? Only say the word. 
Shall I go for a officer ?” 

“ No ; never mind— it doesn’t matter. Still, 
I’ve a fancy for that handkercher, and will 
give more than it’s worth for it. 

“Well, that’s like a nobleman, that is. 
Here, Jingo !’’ — cried Blast, stepping a pace 
or two into the passage, and bawling his 
lustiest — “ Jingo, here’s the gen’lman as has 
lost the handkercher you found; bring it 
down, my beauty.” Obedient to the com- 
mand, a half-naked child — with the very look 
and manner of St. Giles’s former self — in- 
stantly appeared with the stolen goods in his 
hand. “ He’s sich a lucky little chap, this 
is,” — said Blast — “ nothin’s lost hereabout, 
that he doesn’t find it. Give the fogle to the 
gen’lman ; and, who knows ? perhaps he’ll 
give you a guinea for it.” The boy obeyed 
the order, and stood with open hand for the 
reward. St. Giles was about to bestow a 
shilling, when Tom Blast sidled towards him, 
and in an affected tone of confidence, said— 
“ Couldn’t think o’ letting you do sich a thing.” 

“ And why not ?” asked St Giles, becom- 
ing more and more terrified at the bold fa- 
miliarity of the ruffian. “ Why not ?” 

“ Tisn’t right ; not at all proper ; not at all 
what I call natral” — and here Blast whisper- 
ed in St. Giles’s ear— “ that money should pass 
atween brothers.” 

“ Brothers ?” cried St. Giles. 

“ Ha, sir !” said Blast, taking his former 
manner, — “ you don’t know what a woman 
that Mrs. St. Giles was ! She was a good 
soul, wasn’t she ? You must know that her 
little boy fell in trouble about a pony ; and 
then he was in Newgate, being made all 
right for Tyburn, jist as this little feller was 
born. And then they took and transported 
young St. Giles ; and he never seed his mother 
- — never know’d nothin’ that she’d got a little 
baby.” 

“ And she’s dead !” cried St. Giles. 

“ And, this I will say,” answered Blast, 
comfortably buried. She was a good soul — 
too good for this world. You didn’t know St. 
Giles, did you ?” said Blast with a laugh. 

“ Why do you ask ?” replied the trembling 
transport. 

“ Because if you did, you must see the 
likeness. Come here. Jingo,” and Blast laid 
one hand upon the urchin’s head, and with 
the other pointed out his many traits of re- 
semblance. “ There’s the same eye for a 

fogle the same nose — the same everything. 

And oh, isn’t he fond o’ ponies, neither ! jist 
like his poor dear brotlier as is far away in 


Botany Bay. Don’t you see that he’s the 
very spit on him ?” cried Blast. 

“I can’t say — how should I know?” an- 
swered St. Giles, about to hurry off; and 
then he felt a strange interest in the victim, 
and paused and asked — “ Who takes care of 
him, now his mother’s gone ?” 

“ He hasn’t a friend in the world but me,” 
said Blast. 

“ God help him !” thought St. Giles. 

“ And I — though you’d never think it” — 
continued Blast, “ I love the little varmint, 
jist as much as if I was his own father.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

With many words did Tom Blast strive to 
assure St. Giles that the orphan boy had found 
a watchful parent in his mother’s friend ; and 
St. Giles was fain to look believingly. He 
saw his own doomed childhood in the miser- 
able, mistaught creature : he saw the wretch 
prepared to sell him, in due season, to New- 
gate shambles ; and yet the passion, the agony 
that tugged at the transport’s heart must be 
subdued : he must mask his hate with a calm 
look, must utter friendly words. “ Twas 
kind of you, mate, — very kind,” said St. Giles, 
“to take such care of the young cretur. 
Well, good day,” and St. Giles colored and 
stammered as he felt the eye of Blast was 
upon him — we shall meet again.” 

“You never said a truer word,” cried Blast, 
and he held forth his hand. St. Giles breathed 
heavily; he would rather have grasped a 
wolf by the throat ; and then he took the 
hand that had all but fitted the halter to his 
own neck. “We shall meet again,” said 
Blast ; and the words, like bodiless furies, 
seemed to St. Giles to fill the air around him. 
He passed from the lane into the open street, 
and still they followed him ; still each sylla- 
ble seemed a devil threatening him. “We 
shall meet again,” rang in his ears, torturing 
his brain ; and again he saw the ghastly hor- 
ror of the morning ; again beheld those 
fifteen corded wretches ; again beheld the 
shadow of himself. He passed on, crossed 
the road ; the street was thronged ; the hub- 
bub of the day was at its height ; yet St. 
Giles saw nothing but those pinioned men, 
and the preacher of Christ’s word, in the 
name of his merciful Master, solacing sinners 
to be in a moment strangled by the warrant 
of a Christian king. He passed, and with 
his hand before his eyes, leant against a wall ; 
and piercing words in terrible distinctness fell 
upon him, — “ I am the resurrection and the 
life.” He started, and a few paces from him, 
in St. Giles’s churchyard, he beheld the par- 


92 


THE HISTORY OF 


ish priest. The holy man was reading the 
burial service over pauper clay ; was sancti- 
fying ashes to ashes, dust to dust, amid' the 
whirl of life — the struggle and the roar of 
money-clawing London. 

The ceremony went on, the solemn sen- 
tences tuned with the music of eternal hopes, 
fitfully heard through cities of “ chairs to 
mend,” and “ live mackarel.” The awful 
voice of Death seemed scoffed, derided, by 
the reckless bully. Life. The prayer that 
embalmed poor human dust for the judgment, 
seemed as measured gibberish that could 
never have a meaning for those who hurried 
to and fro, as though immortality dwelt in 
their sinews. And that staid and serious- 
looking man, with upturned eyes and sono- 
rous voice, clad in a robe of white, and hold- 
ing an open book, — why, what was he ? 
Surely, he was playing some strange part in 
a piece of business in which business men 
could have no interest. The ceremony is not 
concluded, and now comes an adventurous 
trader with a dromedary and a monkey on its 
back, the well taught pug, with doffed feath- 
ered cap, sagaciously soliciting half-pence. 
And there, opposite the church-yard, the 
prayer of the priest coming brokenly to his 
ears, is a tradesman smiling at his counter, 
ringing the coin, and hardly snuffing the 
Golgotha at his door, asking wdiat article he 
next shall hjive the happiness to show. And 
thus in London higlwvays do Death and Life 
shoulder each other. And Life heeds not tlie 
foul, impertinent warning ; but at the worst 
thinks Death, wdien so very near, a nuisance : 
it is made by familiarity a nasty, vulgar un- 
healthy thing; it is too close a neighbor to 
become a solemnity. 

It has been held to be a wise, deep-thought- 
ed ordinance of the Egyptians that at tlieir 
banquets w'as served a skeleton, that, in its 
grim and nakedness, it might preach their 
coming nakedness to all the revellers : that it 
might show their future outline of bone, wffien 
called to lay aside the fleshly garment, laced 
and interlaced with so divine a mystery of 
nerves that, subtile as light, conveys the bliss 
of being. And so was a skull made a moral- 
ist ; and solemn were the mute exaltations 
fiilling from its grinning jaws ; profound its 
comic teaching. For, apart from association, 
the expression of a bare skull has, to ourselves 
vat least, nothing in it serious : nay, there has 
always seemed to us a quaint cheerfulness in 
it. The cheek-bones look still puckered with 
a smile, as though contracted when it flung 
aside the mask of life, and caught a glimpse 
of the on-coming glory. 

And the Egyptians are lauded for their 
dinner skeleton. Indeed, a t the first thought, 
it seems a notable way of teaching sobriety 
and good manners. Yet, could w’e -come at 
the truth — could we know the very heart of 


the banquet, throbbing after an hour or so, 
with hot wine, — we should know, past dis- 
pute, how grievously the great Preacher Bone 
had failed in his purpose. We should hear 
of quick-witted Egyptians making unseemly 
jokes at his gaunt nakedness ; we should 
see one reprobate idolater of leeks capping 
death’s-head with an empty bowl, even as a 
boy ventures a joke upon his sleeping school- 
master. We should see another — a fine 
young Theban — spirting wine in the cavern- 
ous eye-holes of Death, bidding him look 
double for the libation. But of these jests 
we hear nothing; we only hear of the wis- 
dom of the whereabout of the skeleton, and 
nothing of the affronts that — we would al- 
most swear to the fact — its familiarity with 
the living drew upon it. 

And therefore — oh, legislators ! — remove 
city churchyards from the shop-doors of citi- 
zens. Your goodly purpose has altogetlier 
failed. By huddling the dead with the liv- 
ing, it was doubtless your tenign intention 
to place a lesson continually in the eyes of 
trading men — to show them how vain and 
fleeting was even a cent, per cent, profit — to 
prove that however thumping the balance on 
the books. Death, with his dirty, grave-yard 
fingers, might any minute come and wipe it 
out. The thing has not succeeded. How 
many hackney-coach stands have witli the 
best intention been established near church- 
yards I For hours and hours the drivers sit 
and sit, with one eye upon the grave, and 
another on the pavement. And yet these 
men, so open to daily meditation— so appeal- 
ed to by tomb-stone eloquence— these men are 
scarcely to be trusted with unweighed bul- 
lion. We speak within measure when we 
say that not above a hundred times have we 
heard of a hackney-coachman returning 
sovereigns which— in a moment of vinous en- 
thusiasm — had been unguardedly tendered 
for shillings. No : we could swear it. Not 
above k hundred times. 

And still St. Giles stood, listening the 
burial service, when he felt something* pull- 
ing at his coat-skirt. He looked round, and 
saw bis half-brother, the precocious Jingo, 
lauded by Tom Blast, at his side. “ I say,” 
cried the urchin with a wink, and pointing 
towards a spot in the churchyard, “that’s 
where we put the old ’oman.” 

“ What,— mother ? Where?” cried St. 
Giles. 

Jingo piclved up a piece of broken ’bacco- 
pipe from the pavement. “ Bet you a pound,” 
said the boy, “ I’ll hit the place. Why, jist 
there ;” and unerringly he pitched the frag- 
ment on a distant grave. This done, Jingo 
nodded in self-approval. 

Without a word, St. Giles entered tlie 
churchyard, and approached the grave, Jingo 
running like a dog at his side. “ Poor soul I 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


93 


poor soul,” cried St. Giles ; and then, looking 
earnestly down upon the clay, he added, “ after 
all, it’s a better place than the Lane — a better 
place.” 

“ Bless your ’art,” said the boy, “ that’s what 
mother said afore she come here. She call- 
ed me to her, and said she was a goin’ to be 
appy at last — and then there was a man as 
read to her two or three times out of a book, 
and would read, for ail Tom Blast said he’d 
get him piimped on for coming to the Lane — 
well, when she talked o’ being appy, the man 
said she was a wicked cretur to think o’ sich 
a tiling. And then didn’t the old ’oman 
wring her hands, and call Tom Blast sich 
names — and didn’t slie hug me like nothin’, 
and scream out, and ask who’d take care o’ 
me?” 

“ I’ll take care of you,” cried St. Giles, and 
he placed an arm about the boy’s neck. “ Be 
a good child, and I’ll take care of you : I 
promise it — here I promise it ; here, where 
poor mother lies. And you will be a good 
boy, won’t you ?” asked St Giles affection- 
ately, and tears came into his eyes. 

“ Oh, won’t I though !” cried Jingo, plain- 
ly expecting some reward for his ready 
promise. 

I know' you will — I’m sure you will,” said 
St. Giles, patting the boy’s head : “ and now 
go home, and you and I’ll meet again afore 
long. Here’s a shilling for you ; and mind 
you take no more handkerchers.” Jingo 
seized the money — his head up and 
down — and in a moment disappeared in Hog- 
lane. “I’ll save him from that devil, — as 
God’s in heaven I will,” cried St. Giles, and 
as tliough nerved with a good purpose, he 
walked sharply on. He liad suddenly found 
in life a new responsibility, and with it, new 
determination. With this thought he pur- 
sued his rapid w^ay to the mansion of St. 
James. With trembling hand he struck the 
knocker ; again and again, harder and harder. 
Still the door remained closed : and then, to the 
fancy of St. Giles, the lion’s liead looked sneer- 
ingly at him, mocking his errand. “ There’s 
nobody at home,” said St-. Giles desponding- 
ly and at the same moment the door was open- 
ed by a footboy, a most bright mulatto of about 
fifteen. There was an ease, a self-assurance 
in the youth, that proved hijn to have been 
born for the brilliant livery that adorned him. 
He seemed to have come into the world, like 
a parroquet, to disport in gaudy covering. 
And thus, a very nestling, he had been 
fledged with the St. James’s livery ; for when 
scarcely six years old, he had been presented 
as a sort of doll footboy to one of the Mar- 
quess’s daughters : like her pet pug, he was 
such a curious little wTetch — such a pretty 
little monster. His color was so bright — his 
nope so flat — his eyes so sha^p — and he had 
this advantage of the pug, his hair was so 


woolly. Had he been made of the best Nankin 
china — and not compounded of Saxon and 
negro blood — he had scarcely been more pre- 
cious. Still, human toy as he was, he had this 
drawback from his humanity ; Ralph — such 
was his name— grew out of the curious ; he 
shot up from the squab Indian image into the 
lanky, loose-jointed youth. Could he have re- 
mained all his life under four feet, he would 
have continued a treasure ; but he grew, and 
growing, was lowered from the eminence of 
his childhood to the flat walk of the servants’- 
hall. It was so pretty to see him — like an elfin 
dwarf from some Indian mine— tripping with 
prayer-book at his young lady’s heels : but na- 
ture, with her old vulgarity, would have her 
way, and so, Ralph, th^e son of Cesar Gum, 
who was duly married to Kitty Muggs, who in 
good time duly buried her African lord, — 
Ralph, we say, was fast spindling into the 
mere footman. And he had ever had a quick 
sense of the rights of livery. It was a garb that 
placing him in near and dear communication 
with the noble, by consequence elevated him 
to a height, not measurable by any moral 
barometer, above common people. He look- 
ed, as from a ladder, down upon the vulgar. 
His mother, the widowed Gum, would in her 
mild, maternal way remonstrate with her be- 
loved child, on his unchristian pride ; and 
when in turn rebuked, as she never failed to 
be, with exorbitant interest, she would com- 
fort herself by declaring to herself, “ that it 
was just so with his blessed father, who was 
gone to a better place. He, too, had such a 
spirit.” Little thought St. Giles, as he stood 
confronted with that young mulatto — at the 
time with all his thoughts half-buried in a 
pottle, from which he fished un strawberry 
after strawberry, conveying the iruit with a 
judicial smack to his mouth, — little thought 
St. Giles that he stood before the only child 
of the negro Cesar, who, in Covent-garden 
watch-house, had borne witness against him. 
As yet St. Giles had ventured no syllable of 
inquiry, when young Ralph, in his own mas- 
terly manner, began the dialogue. 

“ I say, if it isn’t an uncivil thing to put to a 
gentleman, — -.how much might you have give 
the Marquess for this house ? You couldn’t 
tell us, nohow, could you ?” and master Ralph 
sucked a strawberry between his white, pater- 
nal teeth. 

“ What do you mean, mate ?” asked St. 
Giles with a stare. 

Ralph returned an astonished look at the 
familiarity, and then spat a strawberry-stalk 
on St. Giles’s foot. He then continued: 

“ Why, in course you’ve bought the house, 
else you’d never have made such a hullaba- 
loo with the knocker. As I said afore, how 
much might you have give for it ?” 

“ I ask your pardon. I’m sure,” said St. 
Giles, “ I thought^at last everybody was out.’ 


94 


THE HISTORY OP 


“ Everybody but me — for kitchen-maids go 
for nothing — is. But what did you give for 
the house, I say ?” again repeated tiie witty 
Ralph ; laughing at his own idomitable 
humor. 

“ Lor, Ralph,” cried a female head, hang- 
ing over the banister, lor, Ralph, why don’t 
you answer the poor man ?” Saying this, 
the head for a moment disappeared, and 
then again showed itself on the shoulders of 
a fat little woman, who bustled down into the 
hall. 

“ Now I tell you what it is,” said the youth- 
ful footman, glowing very yellow, and hold- 
ing up his fore-finger at the intruder, “ if you 
don’t let me mind my business, you shan’t 
come here when they’re out, at all, — now 
mind that.” 

“ Ha ! if only your dear father could hear 
you, wouldn’t it break his heart ! For the 
seven years we lived together he never said 
a crooked word to me, and Ralph, you know 
it. He was a man,” said the widow in that 
earnest tone with which widows would some- 
times fain convey a sense of value of the past 
invaluable. “ He was a man !” 

“ I s’pose he was” — replied the filial Ralph 
“ you’ve said so such a many times : all I 
know is, I know nothing about him^ — and I 
don’t want to know nothing.” 

“ Well, if ever I thought to hear such word-s 
come out of that livery ! Don’t you expect 
something will happen to you ? Know noth- 
ing about your own father! When — only 
you’re a shade or two lighter, for your dear 
father wasn’t ashamed of what God give him 
to cover him with — only a shade or two, and 
you’re as like him as one crow’s like another.” 
And this Mrs. Gum further clenched with — 

“ And you know ypu are.” 

Master Ralph Gum turned a deeper and 
deeper yellow, as his mother spoke. His in- 
dignation, however, at his avowed similitude 
to his departed sire, was too large to be volu- 
ble through a human mouth. He therefore 
turned abruptly from his widowed parent, and 
ancfrilv shouted at St. Giles — “ What do you 
want ?” 

“ I want his young lordship,” answered St. 
Giles. “ He told me to bring this,” and St. 
Giles presented the card. 

“ Well, I can read this plain enough,” said 
Ralph. 

“ And if you can,” cried Mrs. Gum, “ who 
have you to thank for the blessing but your 
dear father ? Till his dying day, he couldn’t 
read, sweet fellow ; but he made you a gen- 
tleman, and yet you know nothing of him.” 

“ You shan’t come here at all, if you can’t 
behave yourself,” cried Master Ralph to his 
mother, evidently meaning to keep his word. 
Then turning to St. Giles, he said — “ You’d 
better take this to Mr. Tangle.” 

“Tangle— la — law}e.r2” cried St. Giles, 


with a quick recollection of that wise man ol 
Newgate. 

“ He’s at the Committee at the Cocoa- 
Tree : I. dare say it’s election business, and 
he’ll send you down — if you’re worth the 
money — with tlie other chaps. I don’t know 
nothing more about it,” cried Master Ralph, 
perceiving that St. Giles was about to make 
further enquiry — “ all I can say to you is, the 
Cocoa-Tree.” 

“ I’m a going a little that way, young man,” 
said Mrs. Gum, “ and I’ll show you.” 

“ And mind what I say,” cried Ralph to his 
mother, closing the door, and speaking with 
his face almost jammed between it and the 
postern ; “ mind what I say ; if you can’t be- 
have yourself, you don’t come no more here.” 
And then he shut the door. 

“ Ha ! he doesn’t mean it — not a bit of it,” 
said Mrs. Gum. “ He’s such a good cretur ; 
so like his father — only a little more lively.” 

“ And he’s dead ?” said St. Giles, not know- 
ing well what to say. 

“ And I’m alone,” sighed Mrs. Gum. “ His 
father was a flower, that cretur was : he’d 
a kissed the stones I walk upon. He was 
too honest for this world. He caught his 
death — nothing shall ever persuade me out 
of it — upon principle.” 

“ After what fashion ?” asked St. Giles. 

“ Why you see it was in a hard frost — and 
poor soul I if tliere was a thing he couldn’t 
’bide in this world, it was frost. He hated it 
worser than any snake ; and it was nat’ral, 
for he was born in a hot place, where monkeys 
and cocoa-nuts come from — this is the way 
to the Cocoa-Tree. Well, it was a hard frosty 
and he was out witli the carriage at a state- 
ball at the Palace. He was in full-dress of 
course — with those dreadful silk stockings. 
All the other servants put on their gaiters ; 
but he wouldn’t — he was so particular to 
orders. Well, the cold flew to the calves of 
his legs, and then up into his stomach, and 
then — oil, young man ! I’ve never looked at 
silk stockings that I haven’t shivered again. 
That’s the way to the Cocoa-Tree and with 
this, Mrs. Gum, possibly to hide her emotion, 
suddenly turned a corner and left St. Giles 
alone. 

But he needed no pilotage : the Cocoa-Tree 
was well known to him ; and with his best 
haste he made his way to its hospitality. 
Arrived there, he inquired for Mr. Tangle, 
and was immediately shown into the presence 
of that very active legalist, who sat at the head 
of a table with a heap of papers before him. 
On each side of the table sat a row of thought- 
ful men, each with a glass at his hand, all con- 
voked to protect the British Constitution, me- 
naced as it was in its most vital part — a part, 
by the way, seldom agreed upon by those who 
talk most about it — by a candidate for the 
representation of the trough of Liquorish , 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


95 


an intruder upon the property of the Mar- 
quess of St. James. The borough, time out 
of mind, had been the property 6i the fiimily : 
to attempt to wrest it from the family grasp 
was little less felonious than an attack upon 
the family plate-chest. Twice or thrice there 
had been murmurs of a threatened contest ; 
but now, on the retirement of Sir George 
Warmington from the seat, that his young 
lordship might gracefully drop himself into it, 
a plebeian candidate, with an alarming amount 
of money, had absolutely declared himself. 
Such audacity had stirred from its depths the 
very purest patriotism of Mr. Tangle, who 
lost no time in waiting upon Mr. Folder — with 
whom since the first Sabbath interview in Red 
Lion Square, he had kept up a running ac- 
quaintanceship — and immediately offering 
himself, body and the precious soul the body 
contained, at the service of the Marquess. 
Mr. Folder had just the order of mind to per- 
ceive and value the merits of Tangle ; and 
the lawyer was instantly appointed as the 
head and heart of the committee sitting at 
the Cocoa-Tree, for his young lordship’s re- 
turn for — in the words of Tangle — his own 
sacred property of Liquorish. 

\ “ Well, my good man,” said Tangle to St. 

Giles, “ you of course are one of the right 
sort. You come to give us a vote ? To be 
sure you do. Well, there’s a post-chaise foi\ 
you, dinners on the road — hot suppers, and a 
bottle of generous wine to send you happy to 
bed. His lordship scorns to give a bribe ; but 
every honest voter has a right to expect the 
common necessaries of life.” 

“ I’ve never a vote,” said St. Giles, “ noth- 
ing of the sort. I wish I had.” 

“ You wish you had, indeed !” cried Tangle. 

None of your impudence, fellow. What 
brings you here, then ?” 

I’ve been to his lordship’s house, and they 
sent me here. His lordship told me to come 
to him in London, and give me this card. 
He told me as how he’d take me into his ser- 
vice,” added St. Giles with a slight shudder, 
for as Tangle looked full upon him, he re- 
membered all the horrors of Newgate — all 
brought to his memory by that legal stare. 
Years had passed over Tangle, and save that 
the lines in his face were cut a little deeper, 
and marked a little blacker, his were the same 
features— the very same— that frowned oii the 
boy horse-stealer in the condemned cell. 

“Well, hisTordship’s not here,” said Tan- 
gle ; “ and he’s too busy now to attend to such 
raft’ as you. Away with you.” 

“ Stop, stop,” cried a low whistling voice ', 
and a geiitleman with a very white, thistle- 
down kind of hair, a small withered face, and 
remarkably little eyes, called back St. Giles. 
“I suppose, my man,” said the aged gentle- 
man, putting on his best possible look ol vigor, 
and endeavoring to make the most of his 


shrunk anatomy, “ I suppose, my fine fellow, 
you can fight ? Eli ? You look as if you 
could fight ?” And then the querest chuckled, 
as though he talked of an enjoyment pecu- 
liarly adapted to man. 

“ Why, yes, sir,” said St. Giles, “ I can 
fight a little, I hope, in a good cause.” 

“ Upon my life, Mr. Folder,” said Tangle, 
“ the world’s come to something when such as 
he is to judge of causes.” 

“ But he’s a stout fellow — a very stout fel- 
low,” whispered Folder to the lawyer ; “ and 
as I’m credibly informed that the other side 
have hired an army of ruffians — I even know 
the very carpenter who has made the bludg- 
eons — why, we mustn’t be taken by surprise. 
I’m never for violence ; but when our blessed 
constitution is threatened by a rabble, we 
can’t be too strong.” 

Mr. Tangle nodded sagaciously at this, and 
again addressed St. Giles. “ Well, then, fel- 
low, if you’re not above earning an honest 
bit of bread, we’ll find employment for you. 
Besides, you may then see his lordship, and 
he may have an opportunity of knowing what 
you’re worth.” 

“ I’ll do anything for his lordship, bless 
him!” cried St Giles. 

“ There, now, none of your blessings. 
We’re too old birds to be caught with such 
chaff as that. Your duty as an honest man 
will be to knock down everybody that wears 
a yellow riband, and to ask no questions.” 
Such were the instructions of Tangle ; and 
St. Giles, who had no other hope than to see 
his lordship, bowed a seeming acquiescence. 

“You may get some refreshment,” said 
Folder, “ and so be ready to start with the 
next batch. Mind, however, at least until 
the day of nomination, to keep yourself sober ; 
on that day, why every thing’s ad libitum. 
When I say ad libitum, I mean that you will 
be expected to take the best means to defend 
our 'blessed constitution. And when I say 
the best means” — 

“ He knows, Mr. Folder ; he knows,” in- 
terrupted Tangle. “ He’ll drink like a fish, 
and fight like a cock ; I can tell it by the 
looks of him and with this compliment the 
attorney waved St. Giles from the apartment ; 
a waiter taking possession of him, and show- 
ing him to a smaller room wherein were con- 
gregated about p dozen minstrels, especially 
iiir^d by Tangld to play away the hearts and 
voices of the voters of Liquorish. Our bless 
ed constitution was toffie sup oorted by a big 
drum, two or three trumpets, as many clarion- 
ets, an oboe, a fiddle or two, and a modest tri- 
angle. “ There was nothing like music to 
bring folks up to the poll,” was the avowal 
of Tangle. “ Fools were always led by the 
ears. When they heard ‘ hearts of oak, they, 
always thought they had the commodity in 
their own breasts — and never paused at the 


96 


s 


the history .'OF 


bribery oath, when ‘ Briton.! strike home’ was 
thundering beside ’em. He’d carried many 
an election with nothing but music, eating 
and drinking, and plenty of money. Music 
was only invented to gammon human nature ; 
and that was one of the reasons women were 
so fond of it.” And animated by this iorlorn 
creed, Mr. Tangle had ordered the aforesaid 
minstrels to meet that day at the Cocoa Tree 
that they might be duly transported to the 
borough of Liquorish. There was no doubt 
that musicians might have been engaged on 
or near the spot ; but there was something 
tasteful and generous in hiring harmony at 
the mart of all luxuries — London. All the 
minstrels — Apollo is so often half-brother to 
Bacchus — were very drunk ; and therefore 
gave an uproarious welcome to St. Giles. 
Brief; however, was the greeting ; for in a 
few minutes the waiter returned with the in- 
telligence that “ the van was at the door ; and 
that Mr. Tangle’s order was that they should 
drive off directly; otherwise they wouldn’t 
be at Liquorish that blessed night.” Here- 
upon there was a clamorous order for a glass 
all round ; the minstrels being unanimous in 
their determination not to stir a foot or strike 
a note in defence of the glorious constitution 
without it. Mr. Tangle knew his mercena- 
ries too well to oppose such patriotism ; 
therefore the liquor was brought and swallow-, 
ed, and the band, with St. Giles among them, 
climbed into the strange, roomy vehicle at the 
door ; the driver, with a flood of brandy burn- 
ing in his face, taking the reins. The 
horses, employed on the occasion had evident- 
ly been degraded for the nonce. They were 
large, sleak, spirited creatures, prematurely 
removed from a carriage, to whirl a plebeian 
vehicle thirty miles Ifom London, at the 
quickest speed. There seemed a sad and 
ominous contrast between the driver and the 
beasts. He might continue to hold the reins 
between his fumbling fingers — he might 
maintain his seat ; the horses might not, con- 
temptuous of the human brute above them, 
cast off his government. Such were evident- 
ly the thoughts of the waiter as he cast an eye 
from the steeds to the driver, and then laugh- 
ed as the wickedness of human nature will 
sometimes laugh at its prophecy of mischief. 
In the leer, the waiter saw the driver and 
the contents of the caravan suddenly welter- 
ing like frogs in a ditch. And the waiter 
was a genuine seer, as the reader will dis- 
cover. 

“ All ready, gemmen ?” hiccupped the 
driver, trying to look round at his harmoniotis 
load. 

“ Wait a minute,” cried the first clarionet, 
who was also the leader ; “ just a minute,” 
and then he made his instrument give a hor- 
rible scream and a grunt, whereupon he cried 
“ all right,” and burst into “ See the conquer- 


ing hero comes,” his co-mates following him 
with all the precision permitted by rough- 
riding and hard-drinking. And" so they took 
their way from the Cocoa-tree, playing be- 
yond Shoreditch an anticipatory strain of tri- 
umph-a glorifying measure that was to herald 
the conquest of young St. James in the cause 
of purity and truth. 

“ I think we’ve given them their belly -full 
now,” at length said the hautboy, removing 
that peace-breaker from his lips. “ We 
needn’t play to the green bushes,” and the 
musician looked about him at the opening 
country. “ I say,” and he called to the 
driver, “ I do hear that the other side isn’t a 
going to have no music at all ; no flags ; no 
open houses for independent voters. A good 
deal he knows about the wants of the people. 
Bless his innocence ! Thinks to get into 
Parliament without music !” 

“ Well, it is wonderful,” observed one of 
the fiddlers, an old, thin-faced, somnolent- 
looking man, with the tip of his nose like an 
old pen dyed with red ink — “ it is odd to con- 
sider what ignoramuses they are that think 
to go into Parliament. Why you can no 
more make a member without music than 
bricks without straw ; it isn’t to be done. 
Speechifying’s very well ; but there’s nothing 
that stirs the hearts of the people, and makes 
[’em think o’ their rights, like a jolly band !” 

“ One bang of my drum,” observed the 
humble advocate of that instrument, “ some- 
times goes more to make a Member of Par- 
liament than all his fine sayings. Bless vour 
souls ! if we could only come to the bottom 
of the matter, we should find that it was in 
fact our instruments that very often made the 
law makers, and not the folks as vote for 
’em ; my big drum’s represented in Parlia- 
ment, though I dare be sworn there’s not a 
member that will own to it.” 

“ And my clarionet’s represented too,” cried 
the leader, advocating his claim. 

“ Yes, and my triangle,” exclaimed the 
player of that three-sided instrument, wholly 
unconscious of the satiric truth that fell from 
him. 

“ Capital ale here !” cried tlie driver, with 
increasing thickness of speech, as he drew 
up at an inn-door. It was plain that the 
county of Essex — or at least that part of it 
that led from London to Liquorish — was pecu- 
liarly blessed with good ale : for at every inn 
the driver pulled up short, and proclaimed the 
heart-cheering news— “ Capital ale here !” 
They were the only words he uttered from the 
time he had passed Shoreditch-church. In- 
deed, he seemed incapable of any other speech, 
he seemed a sort of human parrot, reared 
and. taught in a brewery, — endowed with no 
other syllables than “ Capital ale here !” And 
still, as we have Innted, the words grew 
thicker and thicker in his mouth ; too thick to 


/ 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


97 


drop from his lips, and so they rumbled in his 
jaws, while he cast a hopeless look about 
him, despairing to get them out; yet at 
every new hostelry making a sound, that 
plainly meant — “ Capital ale here.” Happi- 
ly for him, according* to his dim idea of 
felicity, he mumbled to quick interpreters. 
Hence, ere half the journey w^^s accomplish- 
ed, the driver seemed possessed of no more 
intelligence than a lump of reeking clay. 
He twiddled the reins between his lingers, 
and sometimes opened his eyes, that saw not 
the backs of the horses they seemed to look 
down upon. But the brutes were intelligent : 
they, it appeared, knew the road ; knew, it 
almost seemed so, the hlthy imbecility of the 
driver ; and so, with either a pity or contempt 
for the infirmity of human nature, they took 
care of their charioteer and his besotted pas- 
sengers. True it is, St. Giles at times cast 
anxious looks about him ; at times, ven- 
tured to hint a doubt of the sobriety of the 
d.river ; whereupon, he was called a fool, a 
coward, and a nincompoop, by his compan- 
ions, who considered his anxiety for the safe- 
ty of his bones as an extreme piece of conceit, 
very offensive to the rest of the company. 
“ You won’t break sooner than any of us, 
will you?” asked the first fiddle. “ Besides, 
you’re too drunk for any harm to come to 
you.” St. Giles was sober as a water-god. 
“A good deal too drunk; for if you knew 
anything — I say, that was a jolt, wasn’t it ?” 
— (for the vehicle had bounced so violently 
against a mile-stone, that the shock half- 
opened the eyes of the driver)--^ you’d know 
that a man who’s properly drunk never comes 
to no sort of harm. There’s a good angel 
always living in a bottle ; you’ve only to 
empty it, and the angel takes care of you di- 
rectly : sees you home, if it’s ever so dark, 
and finds the key-hole for you, if your hand 
is ever so unsteady. No: it’s only your 
sneak-up chaps, that are afraid of the glass, 
that get into trouble, break their bones, and 
catch rheumatism, and all that. Whereas, if 
your skin’s as full of liquor as a grape’s full 
of juice, you may la!y yourself down in a 
ditch like a little baby in his mother’s lap, and 
wake in the morning for all the world like an 
opening lily.” 

The latter part of this sentence was scarce- 
ly heard by St. Giles, for the horses had sud- 
denly burst into a gallop ; the vehicle swayed 
to and fro. Hew around a turning of the road, 
and striking against the projecting roots of a 
huge tree, threw all its human contents into 
a green-mantled pond on the other side of the 
narrow highway, one wheel rolling indo{)en- 
dently off. St. Giles, unhurt, but drenched 
to the skin, immediately set about rescuing 
his all but helpless companions. He tugged 
and tugged at the inert mass, the driver, and 
at length succeeded in dragging him from the ' 


pond, and setting him against a bank. He 
groaned, and his lips moved, and then he 
grunted — “ Capital ale here.” The first 
clarionet scrambled .from the pool, and seizing 
his instrument, that had rolled into the mud, 
immediately struck up “ See the conquering 
hero comes !” The first drum, inspired by 
the melodious courage of his companion, 
bqnged away at the parchment, but alas ! for 
the first fiddle : the bacchanal good angel, of 
which he had but a moment since so loudly- 
vaunted, had forsaken him at his worst need ; 
and that prime Cremona was rescued from 
water, mud, and duckweed with a broken arm. 
He was, however, unconscious of the injury; 
and before he was well out of the pond, as- 
sured St. Giles that if he would only have 
the kindness and good-fellowship to let him 
alone, he could sleep where he was like any 
angel. 

It was about ten o’clock at night, but for 
the season very dark. St. Giles, from the 
time that he could see the mile-stones knew 
that he must be near the wished-for borough. 
It was in vain to talk to his companions. 
Some were senseless and stupid ; some roar- 
ing bravado, and some trying to give vent to 
the most horrid music. Again and again he 
hallooed, but the louder he cried, the stronger 
the big drum beat— the more demoniacally the 
clarionet screamed. There was no other 
way : he would seek the first habitation, that 
he might return with succor to the wet, the 
drunk, and the wounded. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

St. Giles had run pretty briskly for some 
quarter of an hour, when he discovered in 
the distance — glowing amid trees — a speck 
of light. It was plain, there was a human 
habitation, though away from the main road. 
He paused for a moment : should he follow 
the highway, or strike off in the direction of 
that taper? Another moment, and he had 
leapt the hedge, and was making fast for the 
beacon. Pie crossed two or three fields, and 
then found himself in a winding green lane ; 
now, as he ran on, he lost the light, and now 
again, like hope renewed, it beamed upon 
him. At length he came full upon the home- 
stead. It was an old circular dwelling ; so 
thronged about by tree and bush, that it seem- 
ed almost impossible that any light within 
could manifest itself to the distant wayfarer. 
A type this, as it will appear, of the heart of 
the master. He affected a solitude from tlie 
world : he believed that he was hidden from 
his fellow-man, and yet the inextinguishable 
goodness that glowed within him, made him 


98 


THE HISTORY OF 


a constant mark for the weary and wretched. I 
For a brief space, St Giles considered the 
cottage. It was plastered with rough-cast ; 
at the first glance, seemingly a poor squalid 
nook. But a closer survey showed it to be 
a place where the household gods fared not 
upon black bread and mere water. The gar- 
den patch before it was filled with choicest 
flowers ; not a weed intruded its idle life upon 
them. It was a place where neatness and 
.comfort seemed to have met in happiest soci- 
ety. St. Giles listened, and heard low voices 
within. At length he knocked at the door. 

“ Who’s there ?” said the master of the 
house. “ If it’s for the taxes, come in the 
morning.” 

“ It’s a traveller,” answered St. Giles, “ that 
want’s help for a lot of poor souls that’s tum- 
bled in a ditch.” 

In a moment, the door was opened, and a 
grey-headed, large-faced, burly man, with a 
candle in his hand, stood at the threshold. 
He warily placed the light between the speak- 
er and himself, shading it, and with a sus- 
picious glance looked hard upon St. Giles ; 
whose eager soul was in a moment in his 
eyes ; and then, trembling from head to foot, 
he cried, “ God be blessed, sir — and is it in- 
deed you ?” 

“ My name, traveller, is Capstick,” said the 
man, bending his brows upon St. Giles, and 
looking determined to be too much for the 
stranger at his door ; a new-comer, it was 
very likely, come to trick him. “ My name 
is Capstick, what may be yours ? Here, 
Jem, you slug — do you know this pilgrim?” 

Another moment, and Jem— old bright Jem, 
with grey grizzled head, shrunk face, and low 
bent shoulders, stood in the door-way. Ere 
Jem could speak, St. Giles discovered him ; 
“ And you, too, here ? Lord, who’d have 
hoped it ?” 

“ Don’t know a feather on him,” said Jem, 
“but he seems to know us, wet as he is.” 

“ Why, that’s it, you see. A fellow from 
a horse-pond will know anybody who’s a sup- 
per and bed to give him. It’s the base part 
of our base nature.” And then the misan- 
thrope turned to St. Giles. Well, my wet 
friend, as you know my name and Jem’s — 
what mark may you carry in the world ? 
What name have you been ruddled with ?” 

St. Giles paused a moment ; and then stam- 
mering said, “ You shall know that by-and- 
bye.” 

“ Very well,” cried Capstick, “ we can 
wait. Saying this, he again stept back into 
the cottage, and was about to close the door. 

“ Oh, never mind me,” cried St. Giles ; 
“ I’ll get on as I can ; all I ask of you is to 
come and help the poor creturs ; some of ’em 
dying with their hurts for what I know.” 

“Jem,” said Capstick, “ we’re fools to do it ; 
but it’s clear, we’re born to be fools. So, get 


the lantern, that we may go and bury the 
dead. Do make haste, Jem,” urged Cap- 
stick with strange misanthropy ; albeit Jem 
moved about with all the vigor time had left 
him. “ How you do crawl — though, after 
all, I don’t see why you shouldn’t. What’s 
people in a ditch to them who’ve a warm bed 
and a snug roof over ’em? Then as for 
dying, death’s every man’s own business ; 
quite a private affair, in which, as I see, no- 
body else has any right to trouble himself- 
Now, do come along, you old catterpillar,” 
and Capstick, staff in hand, stept forth, Jem 
limping after him. 

Whilst Capstick leads the way, — a shorter 
op^ than that traversed by St. Giles — into the 
main road, we may explain to the reader the 
combined causes that have presented the 
muffin-maker and linkman as little other 
than eremites on the skirts of the borough 
of Liquorish. Mr. Capstick had turned his 
muffins into a sufficient number of guineas 
for the rest of his days, and therefore deter- 
mined to retire from Seven Dials to the coun- 
try. Mrs. Capstick would never hear of go- 
ing to be buried alive frbm London ; and 
therefore resolved upon nothing more remote 
than a suburban whereabout. Hackney, oi 
Pimlico, or Islington, she might be brought 
to endure ; but no, if she knew herself, noth 
ing should make her go and live, as she pa 
thetically put it, like an owl in a bush. Cap 
stick met all these objections in his usuallj 
lofty way : “ she was a foolish woman, but 
would learn better.” This, he again and 
again avowed ; though no man had less faith 
in the avowal than himself. Still, it kept up 
his dignity continually to call his wife a fool- 
ish woman ; albeit, he w^as generally com- 
pelled to yield to the folly he imperiously 
•condemned. Matters w^ere at this crisis, 
when suddenly Mrs. Capstick fell sick and 
died. “ She w^ould have been an excellent 
creature,” Capstick said, “ if it had not been 
her misfortune to be a woman. However, 
poor soul ! she could not help that ; and there- 
fore, why should he blame her ?” V ery often 
Capstick would so deliver himself, his eyes 
filling with tears, as he tried to twitch his 
lips into a cynical smile at all woman-kind, 
and at the late Mrs. Capstick in particular. 
“ Still,” he would say, “ she had her virtues. 
Every day of her life she would walk round 
every one of his shirt-buttons that no one of 
them might be missing. He hated all tomb- 
stone flourishes, otherwise he wmuld have 
had that special virtue — he meant the but- 
tons — especially named in her epitaph. One 
comfort, however, he always had to think of : 
whatever his love was for her, he never let 
her know it. Oh dear no ! It was like 
showing the weak«>part of a fortress to ail 
comers : some day or the other ’twould be 
sure to be taken advantage of.” 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


99 


And the death of Mrs. Capstick — the muf- 
fin-maker would never confess that for three 
months he pined like a solitary dove at the 
loss — left him free to choose his abode. 
Whereupon he quitted London, and built 
himself a house almost buried in a wood 
some two miles from Liquorish : and this 
house, or hut, he, setting himself up as a 
sort of Diogenes — kind, butter-hearted im- 
postor ! — called with a flourish, The Tub ! 
The satire was lost upon nearly all the inha- 
bitants of Liquorish, many of whom discover- 
ed, as they believed, a very natural cause for 
so strange a name. There was no doubt — 
it was urged by many — that Capstick had, in 
his day, made large sums of money by smug- 
gling : hence, out of pure gratitude to the 
source of his fortune, he had called his cot- 
tage a Tub. Indeed, two or three of the 
shrewder sorts dropt mystic hints about the 
possibility of finding, somehow attached to 
the Tub, an unlawful still. People — this 
apothegm clenched the suspicion in the 
hearts of some — people did not live in a wood 
for nothing ! 

Bright Jem had lost his cordial, good-na- 
tured mate some four or five years before the 
death of Mrs. Capstick. He would, in his 
despair, tell the mufiin-maker that “ his poor 
Susan had somehow carried his heart into 
her grave with her ; he had no mind to do 
nothing.” Sometimes too, he would borrow 
a melancholy similitude from the skittle- 
ground, and shaking his head, would exclaim 
that “ he was a down pin.” To this sorrow, 
the muffin-maker would apply what he 
thought a sharp philosophy by way of a 
cure. He would mean to drop gall and vin- 
egar into the hurts of his poor and poorer 
neighbor — for, as Jem would often declare, 
Susan seemed to have taken away all his 
luck with her — but he could deal in nought 
save oil and honey. Capstick flourished, 
and Bright Jem faded. Great and increas- 
ing was the fame of the muffins ; but the 
link waned, and waned, and Bright Jem, 
weakened by sickness, almost crippled by the 
effects of cold, would have been passed to the 
workhouse, as he would say, to “ pick oakum 
and wait for the grave-digger.” This fate, 
however, was warded from him by the stony- 
hearted misanthrope, Capstick : by the muffin- 
maker, who declaring that all men were 
wolves and tigers, would, at their least need, 
tend the carnivora, as though they were 
bruised and wounded lambs. Hear him talk, 
and he would heap burning ashes on the 
head of weak humanity. Watch his doings, 
and with moistened eyes he would pour a 
precious ointment there. For years it was 
the weekly practice of Capstick to visit Jem 
in his lonely room in Short’s-gardens, to en- 
joy a fling at the world : to find out the bad 
marks of° the monster or, as he would say, 


“ to count the spots on the leopard’s coat,” 
Every Friday, he would come and take his 
pipe with Jem, that he might call all men 
wretches without having his wife to contra- 
dict him ; when, having eased his bile and 
laid Jem’s- weekly pension on the mantel- 
piece, he would return home with lightened 
heart to business. “ The world’s a bad lot, 
Jem ; a very bad lot : how it’s been suffered 
to grow as old as it is, it’s more than I can 
tell. Like an old block of wood, it’s fit for 
nothing but burning : God bless you, Jem.” 
And with this opinion, with this benison, 
would the muffin-maker commonly depart. 

Capstick, however, when his wife died, re- 
solved to carry Bright Jem into the country 
with him. “You’ll be a good deal of use 
there, Jem,” said the muffin-maker, when he 
broke the business. 

“ Not a morsel in the world,” answered 
the humble linkman. “ I’ve been used to 
nothing but London streets. I knows noth- 
ing that lives nor grows in the country. 
Poor dear Susan could never teach me prim- 
roses from polyanthuses, though she know’d 
all about ’em. I’m a sinner, if I think I ever 
saw a cock-robin in all my life. What can I 
do in the country ?” 

“ You shall learn to garden, Jem. That’s 
the grand, the true employm.ent of man,” 
cried the muffin-maker, warming. Why, 
here have I been for years an old rascal, 
grinning, and bowing, and ducking behind 
my counter to make money out of two-legg- 
ed things as false as myself — and do you call 
that the dignity of life ? Do you call it truth, 
Jem ? Now, real dignity’s in a real spade : 
real truth’s in the earth. She gives us — if 
we deserve it — profits a hundred and a hun- 
dred fold, and there’s no telling lies, no cheat- 
ing one another to have ’em. They’re a little 
different, Jem, to the profits we get upon 
’Change. The earth, like dear Eve, is 
always a mother to us ; whereas when men 
deal with men, how often do they go to work 
like so many Cains and Abels, only they use 
thumping lies instead of clubs. I tell you, 
Jem, you shall be my gardener.” 

“ I don’t know an inion from a carrot, afore 
it’s out o’ the ground,” said Bright Jem, show- 
ing, as he thought, good cause against the 
appointment. Capstick, however, overruled 
the objection, and so, in due season, Jem was 
housed in the Tub. And thus, journeying 
across the fields to the scene of St, Giles’ 
disaster, have we explained to the reader the 
why and the wherefore of the sudden ap- 
pearance of the muffin-maker and his friend. 

Arrived at the place of accident, not a soul 
was to be found. The only evidence of the 
truth of St. Giles’ story was discoverable in 
the overturned caravan, and the parted wheel. 
The horses as well as passengers had been 
taken on. Capstick took the lantern from 


100 


THE HISTORY OF 


Jem, and looked suspicious^ around him. { 
He then held the light to St. Giles, trying to < 
read his face ; and then he shook his head, i 
as though baulked by what the misanthrope ] 
would call, the “ brute-human hieroglyphs ; 1 
I the monkey, and owl, and dog, and fox, that 
lived in every countenance.” St. Giles — he i 
was wet as a fish — gave a slight shiver. '< 
“ It isn’t above three miles to the Rose,” : 
said Capstick. ' 1 

“ Thank ’ee, sir ; is it straight on, sir ?” I ’ 
can run there in no time, and a run won’t do 1 
me no harm,” said St. Giles. 

“ The road’s narrow ; the hedges are high, ‘ 
there’s no moon, and you can’t run very fast J 
with a lantern,” observed Capstick. ' 

“ I’ll find my way, sir, I’ve no doubt on it ' 
— straight on ?” and St. Giles prepared to 
start. ' 

Capstick laid his hand upon St. Giles’ 
arm, and then said aside to Jem : “ The poor 
wretch is wet as water. He may miss his 
road ; may take a fever ; not that that would 
much matter, for there’s vagabonds a plenty 
in the world. Still — there isn’t a great deal 
of you, Jem ; and he’s a slimmish chap, — 
and, if you ain’t very much afraid of your 
throat, I think for one night the fellow might 
turn in with you. We’re wrong 'in doing 
it,” said Capstick, emphatically. 

Not at all,” said Jem in a louder tone. 

“ Well, you sir,” cried Capstick to St. 
Giles, “ let’s go back again : you’ll find this 
a nearer w'ay to bed than along the high- 
way.” Saying this, the master of the Tub 
turned back towards his dwelling-place. 1 1 
can walk faster than you, Jem ; so I’ll push 
on,” and the muffin-maker mended his pace. 

" We live here quite by ourselves, just like 
a brace o’ ermits,” said bright Jem. 

“ All alone 1” cried St. Giles, “ where’s 
your wife, then ?” 

“ My wife ! I don’t know how you know’d 
I ever had one — my wife, dear cretur ! is in 
one of them stars above us,” said Jem, “ and 
whichever one it is, this I know, it isn’t the 
worse for her being in it.” Jem paused a 
moment ; and then somewhat sadly asked ; ^ 
" How did you know I ever had a wife ?” 

“ Why,” replied St. Giles, “ you look as 
- if you had : there’s a sort of married mark 
upon some people.” 

“ And so there is : a sort of weddin’-ring 
mark, jist like the mark of a collar. I didn’t 
know I had it, tlmugh, but here we are,” and 
Bright Jem paused at the Tub, and Capstick 
immediately came to the door. 

“After all. I’ve been thinking you may 
lose your w"ay, and as you’re a little wet, 
why perhaps you’d better come in, and when 
we’ve had a pipe or so, we’ll see what’s to be 
done.” Such was the hospitable invitation 
of Capstick. St. Giles paused a ipoment ; 
where>upon Capstick caught him by the arm, 


and crying — “ Don’t stay there wasting the 
candle,” pulled him in,. “ Now, as we can’t 
have any of your wret rags drowning the 
place to give us all cold, you’ll just go in 
there, and put on what comes to hand.” • 
With this, Capstick pointed to an inner 
room, which St. Giles obediently entered, 
and finding there various articles of dress — 
all -of them more than a thought too vast for 
him — he straightway relieved himself of his 
well-soaked apparel, Bright Jem assisting at 
the change. 

“ You might jump out on ’em,” said Jem; 
“ but never mind that ; a bad fit’s nothin' to 
a bad cold : I know that, for I’ve had colds 
o’ all sorts, and ought to be allowed to speak 
on ’em.” 

“ Jem, get the supper,” cried Capstick. 
“ You sometimes eat, I suppose ? You’re 
not a cherub, quite ?” and the cynic of the 
Tub tried to smile very severely at his guest. 

“ Thank ’ee, sir,” said St Giles, his heart 
warming tow'ards his old benefactor ; I can 
eat up anything.” 

“ Bad as our slugs, Jem,” observed Cap- 
stick ; and they do crawl and crawl over our 
cabbages, like the world’s slander over a 
good name. You may kill ’em, it’s true ; 
but there’s the slime, Jem ; the slime.” 

“ Here’s the bread and cheese, and all 
that’s left o’ the gammon o’ bacon,” remark- 
ed Jem, turning from the metaphorical to the 
real “There’s one comfort, ho wsu me ver*, 
the ale isn’t out.” And Jem authenticated 
his speech by speedily producing a large 
brown jug, crowned, as he said, “with a 
noble wig o’ froth. There isn’t a judge in 
all the land,” added Jem, “ with a wig like 
that.” 

“ No,” said Capstick, who had by this time 
lighted his pipe ; “ nor with anything like it, 
under it.” 

St. Giles, having eaten, and tested the 
merits of the ale below the wig — which to 
his taste covered nothing "Talse or vapid — 
looked around him with a look of large con- 
tent. The hospita ble cynic caught the glance, 
and despite himself, smiled benignly. 

If you please, sir,” said St. Giles, who 
could have fallen atCapstick’s feet, “ I shpuld 
like to tell you who I am.” 

“ Not to-night,” said Capstick, “ I don’t 
want to hear it. We’re early people here, 
and the cock always calls us out of bed. 
Take another horn of ale ; or one, or two, or 
three, and then suppose you retire to rest.” 

St. Giles filled the horn ; and then look- 
ing at Capstick in a way that made him turn 
round and round in his chair, for there v/as 
an earnestness in the man that ho cCmld not, 
by his own theoiy of human wickedness, 
account for, St. Giles cried, “ God bless you, 
sir.” 

“ Thajik’ee— that can do nobody any harm. 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


101 


whoever says it, and whoever it’s said to. 
The same to you, and good night,” and Cap- 
stick rose to retire to his sleep. As he was 
leaving the room, ho paused at the door, and 
said in averyioud voice, “ You’ve loaded my 
pistols, of course, Jem ?” 

“ Pistols !” cried Jem, with all his face all 
wonder. 

“ For,” said Capstick, coughing, “ I know 
the heart of man ; and in a lonely place like 
this, pistols — double-loaded — arn’t sometimes 
the worst things to have against it. Good 
night,” and shaking St. Giles by the hand, 
Capstick stalked from the room looking tre- 
mendous sagacity. 

“ Shall I tell you who I am ?” asked St. 
Giles, placing his hand on Jem’s knee. 

“ Not to-night,” said Jem. “ It’s the only 
thing that my dear Susan and me ever quar- 
relled about — not that we ever quarrelled — 
she was too good a soul for that — but I never 
could be curious. Now, somehow, women 
are so. If there’s only a mouse-hole in the 
house, it’s a relief to their mind to know 
where it is. Lor ! when we talk of quarrel- 
ling ! When she was alive, I always thought 
she begun it — not, as I say, we ever quarrel- 
led — but now she’s gone, it’s me that seems 
the brute.” 

“ And both your wives is dead ?” said St. 
Giles. 

“ Both in heaven,” said Jem, with beautiful 
confidence. “ Mrs. Capstick used to keep 
herself a good deal above Susan when she 
was here ; but, poor thing ! I dare say she’s 
found out her mistake now.” 

“ That’s a place, depend upon it,” said St. 
Giles, “ where we make all these matters 
quite straight.” 

“ No doubt on it,” answered Jem ; “ but 
after all, it’s a pity we don’t make ’em a 
little straighter here. ’T would bring heaven 
a little nearer this world, wouldn’t it ?” 

« Well,” cried St. Giles, twill be all right 
at last.” 

“ In course it will,” said Jem. “ Never- 
theless, my good feller — for I think you are 
a good feller— why should we wait for thfe 
last to begin it ? Will you have any more 
ale ? It isn’t often a stranger comes here.” 

“Not a drop: I’m full; and my heart’s 
fuller than all my body. Let’s go to bed,” 
said St. Giles ; and immediately Jem rose, and 
showed him to their chamber. 

Hours passed, and St. Giles could not 
sleep. All the scenes of his long life — for 
how does misery lengthen life, making grey- 
headed men of mere maturity, compelling 
childhood— that should have beautiful visions, 
foreshadowing beautiful truths around it — to 
keep a day-book of the wrongs committed on 
it ! Such a nature knows the amount of life 
only by the balance of injury against it. And 
such— need we say so to the reader ?— was 


St. Giles. Hence, young as he was, he was 
hoary in the hard experience of an unjust 
world — unjust from its ignorance, its selfish- 
ness, its erring belief in the necessity of 
wretchedness as a victim to enjoyment. He 
lay, and counted year by year, nay, week by 
week of his life — as first lighted by memory 
— and was melted by gratitude, by wonder, 
at the accident that had brought him beneath 
the protection of those who — ^in all his after 
vice, and after misery — had still made to him 
a belief in goodness ; in the world’s charity ; 
in the inextinguishable kindness of the hu- 
man heart. All his cares — all his anxieties 
for the future — seemed to pass away in the 
great assurance of his present fortune- And 
so he lay sleepless, bewildered with happi 
ness. At length he slept. 

The sun shone reproachfully into his room, 
as he awoke, aroused by Bright Jem. “ I 
say,” said Jem, “ will you come up, or will 
you take another pull atween the sheets ? It’s 
nicer in the garden, if you can only think so.” 

“ To be sure,” said St. Giles, “ I’m with 
you in a minute.” Hurrying on his clothes 
— he found them already dried and placed by 
his bed — he soon joined Jem in the garden. 

“ I can’t do much of the rough work,” 
said Jem, as he feebly managed his spade, 
“but it’s wonderful how I’ve taken to the 
business for all that. When I think o’ the 
years and years I lived in Short’s-gardens, 
never knowing which side o’ the world the 
sun got up — never seeing him get up — never 
hearing a bird whistle except in a cage — 
thinking there was hardly anything upon the 
earth but bricklayers’ and carpenters’ work 
— I do feel it a blessing in ray old age, that 
I can see the trees of a summer morning 
waving about me — I do feel happy with all 
things, seeing them to be so bright and beau- 
tiful, and brimming over, as I may say, with 
God’s goodness.'” 

“ That’s true, Jem — very true,” said St. 
Giles; “and I’m glad to see it, you look 
happy.” 

“ As a butterfly,” cried Jem. “ And, Lord 
love you ! when I sometimes think what I 
was in London ; when I think o’ the poor 
folks that’s there now — the poor creturs 
that’s as fine as may-bugs for a year or so, 
and then tumble, as I may say, in the mud, 
and get trod on by anybody, till they die and 
are no more thought on than pisoned rats, — 
well, I am thankful that I’ve been brought into 
this place to feel myself, as I may say, some- 
what cleaned from London mud, and my 
heart opened by the sweet and pretty things 
about me.” 

“ And you didn’t know nothing of garden- 
ing, Jem, when you first came ?” said St. 
Giles. 

“ I tell you, not a bit. But you’ve no 
thought on’t how soon a man with the will 


102 


THE HISTORY OP 


in him, learns. I shall never forget what 
Mr. Capstick said to me, when we first come, 
and I didn’t think I could take to it. ‘ Jem,’ 
says he to me, ‘ a garden is a beautiful book, 
writ by the finger of God ; every flower and 
every leafs a letter ; you’ve only to learn ’em 
— and he’s a poor dunce that can’t, if he will, 
do that — to learn ’em, and join ’em, and then to 
go on reading and reading, and you’ll find 
yourself carried away from the earth to the 
skies by the beautifiil story you’re going 
through.’ ” 

“Mr. Capstick! He’s a kind, humane 
cretur,” said St. Giles. 

“ He’s not a man,” said Jem ; “ he’s a 
lump o’ honey that would pass itself off for 
bitter allys. A lump o’ honey ; I often say 
the bees made him. Yes,” Jem returned to 
his garden — “ you don’t know what beauti- 
ful thoughts — for they’re nothing short — 
grow out o’ the ground, and seem to talk to 
a man. And then there’s some flowers, they 
always seem to me like over-dutiful children : 
tend ’em ever so little, and they come up, 
and flourish, and show, as I may say, their 
bright and happy faces to you. Now, look 
here,” and Jem pointed to a flower at his 
foot. “ I sowed this last year — just flung it 
in the mould — and you’d hardly believe it, 
it’s copie up agin by itself. You wouldn’t 
think now,” — and Jem looked suddenly pro- 
fessorial — “ you wouldn’t think it was a 
Pimlico specissimo tulipum hulbum 

“ What’s that in English ?” asked St. Giles. 

“ Ain’t got no other name, as I know of ; 
but there is no doubt it’s a tulup. I didn’t 
think I could do it,” said Jem, with the 
smallest touch of self-complacency, “ but I 
know the Latin names of half the flowers 
you see.” 

“ Well, they don’t smell no sweeter for 
that, do they ?” cried St. Giles. 

Bright Jem paused a moment ; and then, 
with a half-serious face answered, “ I don’t 
know that they don’t.” 

St. Giles felt no disposition to argue the 
point, therefore suddenly changed his ground. 
“ Isn’t Mr. Capstick late ?” he asked. 

“ Late ! he’s never late,” cried Bright Jem. 
“ He’s left the Tub these two hours. Gone 
for a walk.” 

“ The Tub ! What Tub ?” asked St. Giles. 

“ Why the house. It’s called the Tub, 
after a tub that some wise man — as Mr. Cap- 
stick tells me he was — lived in a many thou- 
sand years ago. Mr. Capstick swears it 
was a vinegar tub.” 

“ Well, that’s droll,” said St. Giles. “ Call 
a house a tub ?” 

“ Why not ?” But if you’ve anything to 
say against it, here comes the master.” And 
as Bright Jem spoke, the early misanthrope 
entered the garden. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Me. Capstick, however, came not alone* 
A pace or two behind him followed an old 
man, whose kind, familiar greeting of Bright 
Jem showed him to be no stranger at the 
Hermitage. “ Well, James,” said the visi- 
tor, “ and how is all your blooming family ?” 
and he looked benignantly at the shrubs and 
flowers. 

“Why, thank’ee, sir, as you see,” said 
Bright Jem, smiling paternally, and tenderly 
patting a lump of earth, as though he loved 
it. “ My family’s jist like any other children ; 
some back’ard, some for’ard. ' Some will run 
up, and branch out like this 'Snapsis Nig- 
ger—” 

“ I perceive,” said the visitor, with his best 
gravity — “ it is the common mustard.” 

“ Jist so,” affirmed Jem very stolidly, “ and 
some will grow jist as you trim ’em, like this 
buckshouse semper wirings.'^' 

“ Very true ; the box-plant is obedient,” 
said tbe new-comer, with continued deference 
to Jem’s scholarship ; “ the box is obedient.” 

“ The box, or, as we call it, the buckshouse 
semperwirings, is a good deal like 9 . ’oman,” 
said Jem,. very confidently. 

Capstick trumpeted a loud, short cough — 
his frequent manner, when astonished or of- 
fended by any human assertion. 

“ Like a ’oman,” repeated Jem, at once un- 
derstanding the objection of his patron. “ And 
I’ll prove it. You’ve only got to trim it into 
a shape at first, and what a little trouble 
makes it always keep it.” 

“ There may be something in the simile,’’ 
said Capstick, with his best malignity ; “ for 
I have seen the tree cut into a peacock.” 

. “ Well, that was all the choice o’ the gar- 
dener. You’ll own it, Mr. Capstick ; it 
might have been cut into a dove,” cried Jem. 

“ It might, originally,” answered Capstick : 
“ but I know the nature of the thing. ’Twould 
have been certain to branch into a peacock 
To be sure, there’s this to be said for the gar- 
dener, poor fool ! though the thing should 
have a tail as long as a kite, because he once 
thought it a dove, he’d think it a dove for- 
ever.” 

“It couldn’t be — impossible,” said Jem. 

“ Why, look there,” cried Capstick, point- 
ing to a yew fantastically mutilated, “ look 
at that dragon.” 

“ Dragon !” cried Jem, “ it’s a angel, with 
its outspread wings. 1 cut it myself; it’s my 
own angel.” 

“ Happy, fond humanity !” said Capstick, 
turning and laying his hand upon the visitor’s 
shoulder. “ How many a dragon to all the 
world beside, seems a blessed angel to its 
owner 1 Who would disturb so comforting 
a faith ?” And then he added to Jem, “ It 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


103 


Is an angel. ’Tis a pity he hasn’t a trum- 
pet.” 

“ It’s a growin’,” said Jem ; “ it’s there, 
.hough nobody but myself can see it.” 

“ ’Tis sometimes so with the trumpets of 
men,” observed Capstick. “ And now we’ll 
to breakfast.” 

“ And you’ll own,” said Jem, determined 
upon conquest, “ that the huckshouse semper- 
wirings is like the ’oman specees 1 To be 
sure it is. Look at it even in a border ; and 
doesn’t it remind you of a quiet, tidy little 
cretur that keeps her house so nice and clean, 
and lets nothing dirty in it? You’ll agree — ” 

“ Is the breakfast ready ?” asked Capstick. 

“ It is,” answered Jem, “ all but the eggs. 
The fowls have been very good to us though : 
there’s twenty on ’em.” 

“ The breakfast ready ! Then the beast 
that is raging within me,” said Capstick, 

“ will own to anything. Twenty eggs ! ’Tis 
wonderful how hunger sharpens arithmetic. 
It is but five a-piece,” and the misanthrope 
for the first time turned to St. Giles ; and 
then straightway passed into the cottage. A 
breakfast, solid and various, lay upon the 
board. “ There’s no whet to the appetite,” 
said Capstick, -“like early dew. Nothing 
for the stomach like grass and field-flowers, 
taken with a fasting eye at five in the morn- 
ing. ’Twas Adam’s own salad, and that’s 
why he lived to nine hundred and thirty.” 

“Think you,” said the visitor, chipping an 
egg-shell, “ think you that Adam, before the 
fall, ate eggs ?” 

“ I can’t say,” said Capstick ; “ but recol- 
lecting the things 1 have read, the question 
would make a very pretty book. ’Tis a pity 
the matter wasn’t stirred two or three hun- 
dred years ago. How many thousand throats 
might have been cut upon it ! How many 
men and women roasted like live oysters ! 
For the wisdom of humanity, ’tis a great 
miss. How popes might have thundered 
about it ! What Te Deums have been chant- 
ed; what maledictions — and all with the 
melted-butter voice of a Christian— pronounc- 
ed ! The world has had a great loss— a very 
great loss.” And Capstick sighed. 

“lean hardly see that,” says Jem. “It 
seems to me that this blessed w^orld will 
never want something to quarrel about, so 
long as there’s two straws upon it.” 

“ Why, there have been the Battles of the 
Straws,” observed Capstick, “ although for 
certain purposes they’ve been called after 
other names.” And then, for a time, the 
breakfast was silently continued : when sud- 
denly Capstick cried out, “ Beast that I am ! 
I have forgotten Velvet !” 

“ Velvet ! Who is he ?” asked the visitor. 

“ An excellent fellow, JV^^aster Kingcup,” 
said Capstick ; “ a worthy creature after my 
own heart. We became acquainted last 


frost; it was a road-side meeting, and I 
brought him here to the Tub. You would 
hardty think it ; but though I saved him from 
a wintry death, and have comforted him like 
my own flesh and blood” — 

“ He isn’t a bit like it,” cried Jem. 

“ Like my own flesh and blood,” repeated 
Capstick, with a reproving look, “he has 
neither bitten nor slandered me, nor lifted my 
latch to midnight thieves, nor in fact done 
anything that a friend you have benefited, 
should do.” At these words, St. Giles, for- 
getful of the misanthropic drolling of his 
host, shifted somewhat uneasily in his seat. 
He thought of the muffins bestowed upon his 
boyhood, and of the discomfort he had after- 
wards inflicted on his benefactor. “ Here, 
Velvet — Velvet,” cried Capstick ; and Bright 
Jem sat with a grave smile enjoying the ex- 
pectation of Mr. Kingcup. “ With all the 
coaxing bestowed upon him, ’tis such a hum- 
ble soul,” said Capstick. “ He never puts 
himself forward — never. I’ll wager ye, now, 
one of these egg-shells,” and Capstick rose 
and looked about him, “that I shall find 
him quietly curled up in a corner. I knew 
it — there he is.” With this, Capstick took 
two steps from his chair, stooped, and in a 
moment returning to his seat, placed a hedge- 
hog on the table. 

“ Humph !” said Kingcup, “ ’tis an odd 
creature for a bosom friend.” 

“Give me all bosom friends like him,” 
cried Capstick. “ For there’s no deceit in 
’em : you see the worst of ’em at the begin- 
ning. Now, look at this fine honest fellow. 
What plain, straight-forward truths he bears 
about him ! You see at once that he is a 
living pin-cushion with the pins’-points up- 
wards, and instantly you treat him after his 
open nature. You know he’s not to be play- 
ed at ball with ; you take in with a glance 
all that his exterior means, and ought to love 
him for his frankness. Poor wretch ! ’tis a 
thousand and a thousand times the ruin of 
him. He has, it is true, an outside of thorns 
— heaven made him with them — but a heart 
of honey. A meek, patient thing! And 
yet, because of his covering, the world casts 
all sorts of slanders upon him ; accuses him 
of wickedness he could not, if he would, com- 
mit. And so is he kicked and cudgelled, and 
made the cruellest sport of, his persecutors 
all the while thinking themselves the best of 
people for their worst of treatment. He 
bears a plain exterior ; he shows so many 
pricking truths to the world, that the world, 
in revenge, couples every outside point with 
an interio?' devil. He is made a martyr for 
this iniquity, — he hides nothing. Poor Vel- 
vet I” and Capstick very gently stroked the 
hedgehog, and proffered it a slice of g.pple, 
and a piece of bread. 

“ ’Tis a pity,” said Kingcup, “ that all 


104 


THE HISTORY OF 


hedgehogs arn’t translated after your fash- 
ion.” 

“ What a better world ’twould make of it !” 
answered tl'.e cynic. “ But no, sir, no ; 
that’s the sort of thing tlie world loves,” and 
Capstick pointed to a handsome tortoise-shell 
cat, stretched at her fullest length upon the 
hearth. “ What a meek, cosy face she has : 
a placid, quiet sort of grandmother look — 
may all grandmothers Ibrgive me ! — Then, 
to see her lap milk, why you’d think a drop 
of blood of any sort would poison her. The 
wretch ! ’twas only last week, she killed 
and ate one of my doves, and afterwards sat 
wiping her whiskers with her left paw, as 
comfortably as any dowager at a tea-party. 
I nursed her before she had any eyes to look 
at her benefactor. — and she has sat and pur- 
red upon my knee, as though she knew all 
she owed me, and was trying’to pay the debt 
with her best singing. And for all this, look 
here — this is what she did only yesterday,” 
and Capstick showed three long fine scratches 
on his right hand. 

“ That’s nothing,” said Mr Kingcup. 
“ You know that cats will scratch.” 

“ To be sure I do,” replied Capstick ; “ and 
all the world knows it ; bat the world don’t 
think the worse of ’em for it, — and for this 
reason, they can, when they like, so well 
hide their claws. Now, poor little Velvet 
here — poor vermin martyr! — he can’t disguise 
what he has ; and so he’s hunted and worried 
for being, as I may say, plain-spoken, — when 
puss is petted and may sleep all day long at 
the fire because in faith she’s so glossy, and 
looks so innocent. And all the while, has 
she not murderous teeth and claws ?” 

“ And so,” cried Kingcup, “ ends, I hope, 
your sermon on hedgehogs. I^et us talk of 
more serious matters.” 

“ If properly thoughtof, you can find them,” 
said Capstick. “ For my part, little Velvet 
here carries a text for serious matter, as you 
have it, in every prickle. Look at him.” 

But the philosopher was interrupted in his 
theme by a knock at the door, which, ere an 
invitation to enter could be delivered, was 
opened, and Mr. Tangle, Mr. Folder, and 
three of the inhabitants of Liquorish — voters 
for that immaculate borough — crowded them- 
selves into the small apartment. Mr. Cap- 
stick rose in his best dignity. He seem^ 
suddenly to divine the cause of the abrupt 
visit, and prepared himself to meet it accord- 
ingly. Bright Jem stared perplexedly in the 
face of Tangle, as though picking out an 
old acquaintance from his features, — whilst 
St. Giles shrank unseen into a corner, not 
caring to confront the lawyer and agent. 

“ Mr. Capstick, good morning, sir. We 
knew- your early habits — nothing like them, 
sir, as your face declares — and tlierefore, we 
were up, I may say by cock-crow, to do our- 


selves the honour of calling upon you,” Thus 
spoke Tangle. 

“ We also know, Mr. Capstick, your at- 
tachment to our blessed con — con — ” but 
here Mr. Folder was seized with an obsti- 
nate cough. He, nevertheless, whilst fight- 
ing agains-t it, motioned with his right hand, 
as much as to say, you understand perfectly 
well what I mean 

“ And we likewise know’d,” observed an 
independent freeholder, name unknown, “ how 
you hates the yellow party.” 

“ His lordship, Mr. Capstick, will personal- 
ly do himself the great delight of waiting 
upon you. In the meantime, I, his humble 
friend, Mr. Tangle, of Red Lion Square — ” 

Here Capstick looking dead in the face of 
the lawyer, gave a long, loud whistle. He 
then said in a low voice of suppressed as- 
tonishment, — “ And so it is ! Bless my soul ! 
Well, no doubt. Providence is very good. 
Still, who’d have thought you’d have lasted 
to this time ?” 

Here Tangle seized the hand of Capstick, 
who suffered his palm to lay like a dead fish 
in the hand of that very fervent man. Sure- 
ly — yes, it must be — surely we have met be- 
fore ? Where could it have been 

“ Newgate,” answered Capstick, as though 
proud of the place. This frankness, however, 
somewhat puzzled the criminal lawyer. He 
knew not what the amount of Capstick’s 
obligations might be to him ; could not, on 
the instant recollect, whether the tenant of 
the Tub, the freeholder of Liquorish, had 
been a housebreaker, a highwayman, or sim- 
ple footpad. Mrl Tangle’s personal acquain- 
tanceship with so many men, thus variouslv 
inclined, had been so great, that it was im- 
possible for him to recollect the benefits, for 
certain inconsiderable fees, he had from time 
to time conferred. Thus, in his uncertainty, 
he merely said, “ Bless me ! Newgate !” 
smiling blandly as though he spoke of Araby 
the Happy, or the Fortunate Isles. 

“ Certainly, Newgate,” repeated Capstick. 
“ I wonder you should forget the case.” 

“ Why, the fact is, Mr. Capstick, I have a 
sort of dim recollection that — but the truth is, 
when I leave London, I always like to leave 
Newgate behind me. Whatever our small 
affair was — ” 

“ Nothing but a little matter of horse-steal- 
ing,” said Capstick, with an ingenuousness 
that even astonished Tangle, whilst Mr. Fol- 
der and the three inhabitants of Liquorish 
looked very blank indeed. It was but for a 
moment, for they sank the horse-stealer, as 
they deemed Capstick, in the freeholder, and 
smiled as vigorously as before. 

“Now, I recollect very well,” said Tangle ; 

“ perfectly well. It was a case of conspira- 
cy against you ; I remember, Mr. Capstick, 
the affecting compliment the Judge paid you 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES, 


105 


when you quitted the dock — tlie cheers that 
rang through the court — and the very hand- 
some supper \vc had on the night of your ac- 
quittal. It was a black case, sir ; a very 
black case. Nevertheless, it is a sweet satis- 
lactiou to recollect that we indicted the wit- 
nesses, and tliat one of ’em, proved guilty of 
perjury, was nearly killed in the pillory. I 
felt the case so strongly, that I remember it 
— ay, as though it were but yesterday — I re- 
member that 1 gave my clerks a holiday to 
see the fellow, telling them at the same time 
wliat I thought of him.” 

“ Humph !” said Capstick, “ you don’t keep 
your memory in quite as good order as the 
Newgate Calendar. There was no acquittal 
in the case I talk of; none at all. Sentence 
was passed, and execution ordered.” 

Tangle looked silently but intently in the 
face of Capstick, as though mentally' in- 
quiring, “ which horse stealer he could be ?” 

“ Execution ordered,” — repeated Capstick 
— “ but it wasn’t to be. Instead of hanging, 
tliere was transportation for life.” 

“ And so there was — I recollect perfectly 
well. I am always glad to welcome back an 
erring man to the paths of virtue,” said Tan- 
gle. “ Of course you have obtained your 
pardon ?” 

“ Pardon ! Oh, dear no — not at all,” said 
Capstick. 

“ Why — bless me !” — gasped Mr. Folder, 
“ you don’t mean to say, fellow — you hav’n’t 
the effrontery to declare it to the faces of 
honest men, that you are an escaped trans- 
port ?” 

Capstick made no answer, but smiled re- 
signedly. The inference, however, was too 
much for Bright Jem, who cried out — “ Why, 
in course not : and as for talking about hon- 
est faces, I should think them as couldn’t see 
the honestest that is, here” — and Jem laid his 
hand affectionately on Capstick’s shoulder — 
“ ought to put on their spectacles.” 

“ Be quiet, Jem,” said Capstick mildly. 

“ I can’t ; it would make that dumb cretur 
speak if it could,” said Jem, pointing to the 
pet hedgehog, “ to hear sich rubbish. You 
ought to recollect, Mr. Tangle, all about it : 
for wasn’t you well paid for doin’ next-door 
to nothin’ ? The bright guineas Mr. Cap- 
stick give you to take the part o’ that poor 
little child— and after all, didn’t you leave 
him to be hanged like a dog ?” 

Tangle’s face broke into excessive radi- 
ance. “Bless my heart! — bless my heart!” 
he cried, and was again about to seize the 
hand of Capstick, when the cynic suddenly 
lifted the hedgehog from the table, giving a 
marked preference to that object. Mr. Tan- 
gle was of a too generous nature to be of- 
fended by such partiality — he had too much 
true humility. Therefore, in no way con- 
fused, he turned to Mr. Folder, saying— “ I 


think, sir, if there were any doubt of our 
cause, this would be a good omen for it.” 

Mr. Folder smiled and assented, though in 
eident ignorance of Tangle’s meaning. “ To 
think that tlie first man we should have can- 
vassed, should have been this good — I will 
say it, tliis righteous person ! You recollect 
Mr. Capstick ; of course, you recollect Mr. 
Capstick ?” 

Mr. Folder, feeling from the lawyer’s man- 
ner, that he ought to recollect our muffin- 
maker, shuffled forward, and with all alacrity 
prepared to take liis hand: but the misan- 
thrope, leering at that affable old man, con- 
tinued to pat his hedgehog. 

“ You remember the case of that wretched 
boy,” said Tangle, “ that born bad thing, 
young St. Giles, who stole his lordship’s 
pony ?” Mr. Folder was immediately im- 
pressed — we might say — oppressed with a 
remembrance of the case. “ And of course, 
you remember the benevolence of this excel- 
lent man, who ” 

“ Tol de rol lol,tol lol lol,” sung Capsticlt, 
with his best energy. 

“ But he’s a true Christian, and you per- 
ceive will hear nothing about it,” said Tan- 
gle. “ I’ll say no more, sir ; you have your 
reward — there, sir — there,” — and Tangle 
pointed his forefinger towards that part of 
Capstick’s anatomy where, in men, as he had 
heard, resided the heart. “ Nevertheless, 
sir, for that young St. Giles — hallo! my 
friend,” cried Tangle for the first time ob- 
serving the owner of that name who, agi- 
tated by what he had heard, and further ter- 
rified by the sudden recognition of Tangle, 
was pale and trembling, — “hallo! what 
brouglit you here ?” 

“ Do you know the young man ?” asked 
Capstick. 

“ Know him, sir ! I should think I did. 
He’s one of our men, hired to sliout for us,” 
said Tangle. 

“ To fight for us, too,” added Mr. Folder, 
“ if need be, in defence of our blessed con- 
stitution.” 

“ Well, friend, said Capst'ck to St. Giles, 
“ your clothes are dry, and I hope your belly’s 
full. That way to the right leads to the 
Rose.” 

Capstick’s manner told St. Giles to be 
gone. It was no time for explanation; 
therefore, determined to return in the eve- 
ning to the hermitage, and to make himself 
known to his benefactor, St. Giles moved to- 
wards the door. “ God bless you, sir,” he 
said, “ for all the good you’ve done to me.” 
With these words he crossed the threshold, 
and was in a moment out of sight. 

“ What,” cried Tangle, struck by the bles- 
sing of St. Giles upon Capstick, “ what, sir, 
at your kindness again.” 

“ There was no kindness at all in the mat- 


100 


THE HISTORY OP 


ter,” said Jem ; “ he was spilt in a pond, and ' 
come here with a wet skin.” 

“ Oh, I see ! The accident that happened 
to the band. Poor devils !” cried Tangle, 

“ ’Twas a mercy none of them v,?ere drowned, 
for the time’s getting close, and, Mr. Cap- 
stick, you who know life, know that an elec- 
tion without music, why It’s like a contest 
without” — 

“ Money,” added Capstick, with a grim 
smile. 

“ Exactly so. But 1 perceive in the hos- 
pitality you have vouchsafed to his lordship’s 
servant, your devotion to his cause. Ha, 
sir ! England has need of such men, now. 
A few such as he would put us to rights, 
sir, in no time; for all the times want, sir, is 
the strong arm — nothing like the strong arm. 
However, to the immediate purpose of our 
visit, as I say, his lordship will himself call 
upon you ; in the meantime” — and Tangle’s 
face looked like old parchment in the sun — 
“in the meantime, I trust we may count 
upon your vote and interest ?” 

Capstick cast his eyes upon the ground, 
then upwards, as though suddenly rapt by 
calculation. He then asked, “ Is his lord- 
ship fond of hedgehogs ?” 

“ I had the happiness and the honour,” 
said Folder, “ of opening his youthful mind ; 
and knowing, as I do, how attentively he 
was wont to listen to my exhortations of not 
only considering the wants of the lower or- 
ders, hut of especially feeling consideration 
towards the lower animal kingdom, I think I 
can confidently say — though I never heard 
his lordship declare his preference — that he 
is decidedly fond of hedgehogs.” 

“ I am very happy to hear it,” said Cap- 
stick, “ ’tis a great thing to know.” 

“ You don’t feel disposed — should his lord- 
ship take a fancy to the creature — to sell 
that hedgehog ?” asked Tangle. 

“ How could I refuse his lordship any- 
thing ?” answered Capstick. “ It’s an odd 
thing : but you’ve heard of what they call 
the transmigration of souls ?” 

“ Of course !” answered the scholar. Fol- 
der. 

“ Well, then, it’s droll enough ! and I 
never thought it. But until the election is 
over, I feel that my soul is in this hedge- 
hog.” 

Tangle put his forefinger to his nose, and 
said — ‘Good! I understand you. A man of 
the world, Mr. Capstick — a man who knows 
life.” Whereupon, Tangle, ere Capstick 
was aware of it, caught him by the hand, 
squeezing it until its knuckles cracked again. 
“ God bless y^u ! We may depend upon all 
your interest? Good bye.” 

The canvassing party then quitted the cot- 
tage. Mr. Tangle walked on with Mr. Fol- 
der ; and was no sooner in the lane that led 


to the main road, where they hi d left 'their 
chaise, than he indulged his pent-up wrath 
with the freest explosion. Now, sir, that’s 
one of the scoundrels that make the world 
what it is !” 

“Shocking!” said Mr. Folder. 

“ That’s one of the men who pollute the 
pure source of parliamentary representation.” 

“ It’s dreadful,” remarked Folder. 

“ Without such vagabonds, a seat in the 
house would be cheap enough. But isn’t it 
dreadful to think what a gentleman must 
disburse to buy such scum !” 

“Notwithstanding,” urged Mr. Folder, 
“ we must protect our blessed constitution. 
And if the other party will offer money for 
the commodity, we musn’t stop at any price 
to -outbjd ’em.” 

“ I know that, Mr. Folder ; I know what is 
due to our true interests. And the noble house 
of St. James has not forgotten that. The 
box of gold at the Olive Branch will testify 
to the patriotism of that house. Neverthe- 
less. As a Christian it shocks me ; never- 
theless, I say — but here’s the coach. Fel- 
low, drive back to the , Olive Branch 
whereupon the canvassing party returned to 
their head-quarters of the pure and indepen- 
dent borough. 


CHAPTER XX. 

As yet the noble candidate of the house of 
St. James had not presented himself to the 
voters of Liquorish. To say the truth, his 
lordship had not that reverence for those 
small pegs of the glorious machine of the 
constitution — the freeholders — that, in his 
virgin address to his constituency, be deemed 
it only decent to assume. Perhaps, indeed, 
he though the said machine might do all the 
better without them. But this heresy had 
been so deeply cut into the bark of his youth- 
ful mind, that it grew and enlarged with it. 
He had been taught to look upon a voter of 
Liquorish as a sort of two-legged hound, the 
property of his noble house : no less its 
goods, because the creature did not wear a 
collar round his neck. ^ No : fortunately, 
men are so made, that though seeming free, 
their souls may now and then be made fast 
to an owner, who can buy the manacles at 
the Mint: wonderful chains ; invisible to the 
world ; of finer temper than anv hammered 
at fairy smithies. It was this good, whole- 
some prejudice— as Mr. Folder called it— 
that imparted to young St. James the serenest 
sense of security : the voters of Liquorish 
were the live-stock of his house : their souls 
stamped, like the Marquess’s sheep, with 
his own noble mark. Hence, our youthful 
lord had delayed until the latest moment the 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


107 


dnidgpry of personal canvass. ' Hence had 
he postponed the practical waggery of solicit- 
ing a vote where no vote could be refused. 
Nevertheless, guided by the patriotic experi- 
ence of his noble father, he would present 
himself to the people. The time, the place, 
had been selected with the happiest sense of 
propriety. Young St. James, the guest of 
Hr. Gilead — the humble, zealous college- 
friend of the Marquess — would meekly ex- 
hibit himself in the doctor’s pew, at the 
parish church: the doctor himself, on that 
eventful occasion, preaching an appropriate 
discourse. Doubtless, the doctor felt that 
oracles to be respected must be vocal only at 
long intervals : hence, he preached but rare- 
ly to his simple flock. His youthful curate 
— a spiritual shepherd boy — was all-sufficient 
to lead them to the water-courses and the 
pasture : it was only now and then that the 
elder pastor would shake before them a 
mouthful or so of sweet herbs, culled from 
the dainty garden of his own theology. Doc- 
tor Gilead was a learned man ; a pious man. 
Neither his coachman, his butler, or either of 
his three footmen, doubted his wisdom or his 
orthodoxy. He was a man, too, of practical 
patience. 'Thrice had he expected a bishop- 
ric ; and thrice had the mitre vanished from 
the tips of his fingers. Whereupon, he 
meekly folded his hands, and smiling down 
the gout at each time with burning nippers 
seized upon him, he thanked Heaven for his 
felicitous escape. Excellent man ! He 
could no more hide the humility within him, 
than he could have discruised the small-pox. 
It would break out. He had once preached 
before George the Third ; and then from his 
pulpit, as from the Mountain, did he see the 
Land of Promise, the House of Lords. Still, 
the milk and honey were untasted ; and still 
with patient, smiling lips, he praised kind 
Providence. 

Such was the owner of Lazarus Hall, the 
rectory ; an abode especially prepared for 
the reception of yoi.ing St. James, who, two 
nights at least, would bless the roof-tree of 
his father’s humble friend. The house was 
rich and odorous as nest of phoenix. Yet 
there was no golden display ; no velvet cur- 
tains ; no flaunting tapestries ; but luxury in 
every shape, took the guise of simplicity, and 
made every corner of the house a cosy nook 
for swan-down Christianity. Then everything 
was so radiantly clean, it seemed no part of 
this dusty earth, but fresh from some brighter 
planet. Had Doctor Gilead been arrayed 
from head to heel in episcopal lawn, there 
was nought within the Hall of Lazarus to 
smudge it. The very flies, from habit, would 
have respected it. Saints and hermits would 
not have dared to sit upon the chair-covers. 

It was Saturday, about five in the after- 
noon. Doctor Gilead sat in his library, gar- 


nished about with his wife and three daugh- 
ters. The doctor was black and glossy as a 
newly-bathed raven. For the ladies, they 
might have been taken as specimens of 
Brobdignag china; so creamy and motion- 
less were their faces, so prim and well-de- 
fined their flowing gowns. Not a word 
was said ; not a sound was heard, save that 
the doctor’s watch ticked feverishly in his 
fob, and a big blundering blue fly kept bounc- 
ing and battering his head against a window- 
pane, doubtless puzzled to know why with 
all so clear before him he could not get out. 
Now the doctor looked reproachfully at the 
noisy insect ; and now subsided to his cus- 
tomary meekness. Once or twice, he stran- 
gled a sigh at his very lips. Haply — but 
who shall sound the depths of man’s silent 
soul ? — haply he thought of the turbot'ma- 
cerating in the kettle, haply of the haunch 
scorching on the spit. Say that we will, it 
tries the spirit of man, to think serenely of 
his boiled and roast, and of the late coming 
guest perilling them both. Doctor Gilead 
breathed heavily; then, taking his watch 
from his fob, he said with a smile of ghastly 
resignation, “ It’s getting rather late.” 

And what said the doctor’s wife ? Why 
precisely what every married daughter of 
Eve would say. She, in the naturalest man- 
ner possible, observed, “ I shouldn’t wonder 
if he doesn’t come at all.” The daughters — 
meek things ! — said nothing ; but they looked 
down and about them at their pretty gowns, 
and slightly bit thefr lips, and slightly sighed. 

“ I don’t think, my dear,” said Mrs. Gilead, 
“ it’s any use waiting for his lordship, now. 
Hadn’t they better serve the dinner?” 

Now, had the doctor assented to this, Mrs. 
Gilead would have been pathetically eloquent 
on the inhospitality of the measure. She 
had no such meaning: all she wanted was 
the discourse of her husband. She talked to 
make him talk. In the like way that, when 
a pufnp is dry, men pour water into it to set 
it flowing. “ The dinner will be totally 
spoilt, my dear,” added Mrs. Gilead, srniling 
as though she communicated sweetest intel- 
ligence. The doctor spoke not, but suffered 
an abdominal shudder. “ In fact, my dear,” 
continued the wife, “ now we ought rather 
to hope that his lordship will not come. 
There will be nothing fit to set before him — 
nothing whatever.” It was strange— she 
did not mean it — yet did Mrs. Gilead talk 
with a certain gust, as though she talked 
of a special treat : to have nothing fit for his 
lordship seemed to be the very thing desira- 
ble. “ What did you say, my dear ?” asked 
Mrs. Gilead. 

The doctor had not uttered a syllable. 
However, again he looked at his watch, and 
then said, “it is very late.” We can find 
no other parallel to this heroic calmness save 


108 


THE HISTORY OF 


in the life of St. Lawrence; who when 
turned like a half-done steak upon his grid- 
iron, merely observed to an acquaintance 
who chanced to be near, — “ it is very warm.” 
In both cases, cooking was the source of 
pain, and the test of resignation : for Doctor 
Gilead thought of his haunch as if it had 
been a part of him. And still the doctor sat, 
looking by degrees fiercely patient,, and be- 
coming slightly savage. Mrs. Gilead, the 
partner of his bosom, knew well what that 
bosom felt, and therefore in her own feminine 
way remarked, “ Now I certainly give his 
lordship up.” 

It was a great pity that Mrs. Gilead had 
not spoken thus before, or surely the same 
effects would have followed the syllables. 
For no sooner had she uttered them than 
there was a whirl of wheels, and suddenly a 
carriage in a cloud of dust stopt at Lazarus 
Hall. Mrs. Gilead jumped; her daughters 
gave a sharp, short, joyful scream ; whilst 
the doctor himself — but reader, did you ever 
in broad day mark the night-lamp of man- 
midwife ? It is dully, darkly red. The sun 
sinks, night comes ; and that dark glass 
burns like a ruby, liquid with glowing light. 
Such was Doctor Gilead’s countenance ; 
such the change : now, sulkly colored, and 
now flaming with joy. A moment, and he 
was at the carriage door ; another, and young 
St. James — the son of his patron and friend 
— stood, with both hands seized by the grasp- 
ing, throbbing palms of the affectionate doc- 
tor. The doctor was in spasms of delight : 
Mrs. Gilead, full of smiles, opened and folded 
her face like a fan : and the young ladies, 
before so statue-like, that had they sat in the 
open air, the birds would have perched upon 
them, swam about and arched their necks 
like cygnets, taking a May-morning bath. 
The ancient painter — a very cunning fellow, 
that, at a difficulty — painted a veil, where the 
intensity of sorrow was such, that not to at- 
tempt to describe it was to do a very fine 
thing. Some of these days, we think of 
writing a tragedy in five long acts upon the 
same high principle of doing nothing : we 
shall give blank leaves. In the meantime 
we might here treat the reader with a white 
page, requesting him to look upon that page 
as a type and representative — not always un- 
apt ones even at the best places — of what 
passed at Dr. Gilead’s dinner table. We 
will not do so ; but printing close, will never- 
theless jump the conversation — cracking and 
brilliant as it was — as a mountebank jumps 
through fireworks, and shift the scene. Stay. 
We must not quit the young ladies so. It 
was the first time they had ever sat at the 
same table with a live lord. They were in 
a state of terrible delight. We have read in 
old Doctor Moffatt’s cookery book, a recipe 
to make beef tender : it is to show to the 


living ox a living lion. The weaker crea- 
ture is taken with a sort of dismay — its bones 
are melted in its great fear — it is made a 
jelly of ere it is aware — or, in a word, it is 
made, according to the doctor’s word, tender. 
It is sometimes thus with woman and a lion 
lord — and it was especially thus with the 
heart of each Miss Gilead, when shown the 
young lord St. Jcmes, the lion of the west! 
At length all separated. Night came, and 
then — and then — though not one of the sis- 
ters said a word of the matter to the other — 
then did Cupids, fluttering up and down the 
staircase, deliver imaginary letters to each. 
Letters, made precious as gems, by St. James’s 
arms upon the seal ; letters that conjured up 
a vision' of a London church — and all the 
bravery of a London marriage. And then, 
there was presentation at court, with the 
hard cut smile of Queen Charlotte, — and all 
the triumphs of an unequal match, when low- 
born woman wears her high-born lord, with 
the self-same glory that the huntress wears 
her happy conquest, — the leonine skin. Each 
sister thought this : and each to the other 
said — speaking casually by the way, of St. 
James — she thought nothing of him : she 
was wholly disappointed. And so leave the 
whole household to their dreams. Let Doc- 
tor Gilead think himself a bishop ; let him in 
his slumbers rehearse his first parliamentary 
speech — let his wife dream of her gown for 
court — let each of the young ladies see and 
feel henself a blushing, stammering bride at 
church — let St. James dream, — he cannot 
help it, — of poor Clarissa. It is Saturday 
night. Labour has flung down his working 
tools, and sleeps a deep and happy sleep ; for 
the next day is a holy breathing-time — a day 
of rest — Sunday. 

It may be remembered by the reader that 
the band and minor mercenaries of St. 
James were posted at the Rose, a hostelry of 
modest character compared to the dignified 
pretensions of the Olive Branch, made still 
more important by the judgment of Mr. 
Tangle, who had selected the tavern as the 
head-quarters of the noble candidate. The 
Rose, in the agent’s own words, did very 
well for the rabble always necessary on such 
occasions ; but for himself, he could not at 
all feel himself a gentleman in any meaner 
place of resort than the Olive Branch. In- 
deed, now and then he was compelled to re- 
member the national and patriotic impor- 
tance of the cause in which he was engaged, 
to reconcile him heartily to the inconve- 
nience of his usual abiding-place. “ There 
was no real life off the stones of London ; 
but then the condition of the country de- 
manded some sacrifice of every man : \vhy, 
then, should he complain ? No : he would 
stick to the constitution whilst a plank of 
it held together. If the ship — he meant the 


BT. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


109 


constitution — was doomed to go 'down, why, 
he would give three cheers, and go down 
with it.” 

Such is the sample of the many patriotic 
sentiments which Mr. Tangle breathed at 
intervals between tea and toast, and eggs, 
and fowl, and all the potable and edible va- 
rieties that compose a sufficient country 
breakfast. As again and again he attacked 
the cold sirloin he became quite eloquent, 
even pathetic on the danger of the constitu- 
tion, as though he filled himself at once with 
beef and inspiration. Mr. Folder was a 
pleased, though for some time, a silent lis- 
tener. It was impossible that any man 
could be a more passionate lover of the glo- 
rious British constitution than himself ; in- 
deed, he could not help thinking that it was 
he who had inoculated Tangle ; nevertheless, 
with all his admiration, he was prudent with 
his fondness, and never talked of the object 
of his passion at any of the four or five 
meals that make tolerable the live-long day 
to sin/ul man. 

It was Sunday morning, and the two pa- 
triots — lull of meat and drink and the good 
of their country — sank back in their chairs, 
and looked serenely in each other’s face. 
“ We shall have a fine congregation to-day,” 
at length observed Mr. Folder, for it was 
well known throughout the borough that the 
casket, Lazarus Hall, contained the jewel of 
a lord — “ all the fashion and respectability of 
the neighborhood, ;io doubt?” 

“ They can’t do less,” remarked Mr. 
Tangle, “ ’twill be only a proper compliment 
to his lordship.” 

“ Nevertheless,” observed the ancient tutor, 
speaking slowly, gravely, “ I am a little dis- 
appointed. I did think that on his lordship’s 
arrival, they would at least have rung the 
church bells. Nor was there even a bon- 
fire.” 

“ Pardon me ; I have my scruples : all 
men have, or should have. Touching the 
church bells, I must confess I do not think 
they ought ever to be employed in any uses 
that are secular. I have my _ prejudices,” 
continued Tangle, with the air ot a man 
very proud of the commodity, “ and church 
bells are one. Bonfires are altogether ano- 
ther matter.” 

“ And fireworks,” added Folder. 

“And fireworks,” consented Tangle. — 
“Though I said nothing at the time, I must 
own*with you, that the absence of so small a 
mark of respect as a bonfire on the arrival 
of his lordship, speaks very many volumes 
against the people. A few years ago, and 
there’d been a blaze on every hill. Not a 
schoolboy but what would have had his cap 
and pockets stuffed with fireworks. Now, 
painful as it is to a man who loves the con- 
etitution, still the truth cannot be disguised. 


there was not a single squib — not a single 
squib,” and Tangle repeated the words with 
pathetic emphasis. 

“I heard none,” said Mr. Folder, with the 
air of a man who, nevertheless, forlornly 
hopes that he may be mistaken. 

“Oh no ! We must not deceive ourselves. 
We must look the truth full in the face, ugly 
as the truth may be ; it’s the only way to 
brow-beat it. I learnt that maxim, Mr. Fol- 
der, from practice in the courts of law. 
There, it only wants a brassy look and a big 
voice, to make an ugly-looking truth seem a 
shameful impostor. Nothing, sir, like learn- 
ing to boldly face truth, if you want to get 
the best of it. And so, sir, though the omis- 
sion of the bonfires and the fire-works did 
pain me — how was it to be otherwise? — 
nevertheless, I feel all the stronger in our 
cause for knowing the revolutionary princi- 
ples that, as I have more than once observed, 
are beginning to be arrayed against all that 
is great and titled in this country.” 

“ Don’t you think, Mr. Tangle,” said Fol- 
der, “ that we had better visit our toilets to 
be ready for church ? We will then walk 
gently over the fields.” 

“ Walk!” echoed Tangle, looking glumly. 

“ Certainly. On the present occasion, it 
will look better to the people ; more condes- 
cending ; more like themselves. His lord- 
ship, depend upon it, will not ride to-day. 
No ; I think my principles will bear a little 
better fruit and Folder smiled securely. 

“ Of course not : I had forgotten : to be 
sure not answered Tangle. Undoubtedly, 
we walk — undoubtedly.” 

This point resolved, the gentlemen retired 
to their separate chambers — they joined, by 
the way — to attire themselves for their devo- 
tions. The village church — on a high hill, its 
base girted with magnificent trees — was seen 
from either window ; a simple, rustic, snow- 
white building shining in the sun, and stand- 
ing clearly, purely out from the deep blue sum- 
mer heaven. “ A charming view, this,” 
said Tangle as, having arrayed himself, he 
was about to quit the room, when his com- 
panion appeared in the passage. 

“ A beautiful landscape !” said Folder, en- 
tering the chamber. “ 1 was thinking so, as 
I looked from my own window. How very 
nicely the church there shows itself upon 
the hill!” 

“ Quite right — nothing but proper ob- 
served Tangle with a sudden touch of solem- 
nity. “ I’d have every church upon a hill ; I 
would indeed, sir. And for this reason ; 
everybody can see it. When upon a hill it 
seems to stand like a monitor, an adviser to 
every body. It preaches, as I may say, from 
a high pulpit to the world below ; and so, 
you will perceive, it’s apt to make men pause 
in their sinful, shabby courses. Many a 


liO 


THE HISTORY OF 


/ 


time — I don't mind confessing so much to 
you, Mr. Folder — but many a time, that is, 
sometimes, wlien I’ve felt my soul a little 
slack, for the best of us can’t always be 
braced up like drums — well, when, as I say, 
I’ve been a little slack, the very sight of a 
church has pulled me up again, and made me 
think of virtue just as I did before.” 

“ Nobody can dispute it,” remarked Mr. 
Folder. “ A church, as somebody has ob- 
served, is sermons in stones.” 

“ My opinion to a letter,” observed Tangle ; 
“ though it’s odd that anybody should have 
thought the same as myself. Come along. 
Stay. When 1 come here, I always look 
once to see if all be right.” Whereupon 
Mr. Tangle approached a closet, unlocked 
the door, and pointing to an iron-bound box, 
observed — “All’s safe. All new, Mr. Fol- 
der, all sparkling and burning from the Mint. 
What a beautiful substance gold is only to 
look at,” cried Tangle with enthusiasm ; at 
the same moment, unlocking the box and 
lifting the lid. “ There’s a blaze !” he 
cried, with a voluptuous smacking of the 
mouth. “How they twinkle!” he added; 
whereupon the parliamentary agent clutched 
a handful of bright guineas, and poured them, 
from hand to hand, his eye catching yellow 
lustre from the golden shower. And thus 
for some brief minute or two did Tangle play 
with minted gold. 

We are told that the snake-charmers of 
the East are wont to ensnare the reptiles 
with dulcet music. The snake-Apollo plays 
a melody upon some magic pipe ; whereupon 
torpid snakes coiled in holes and crannies 
gradually untwist themselves, and feel their 
blood quicken, and their scales rustle, and 
they glide and undulate towards the sound, 
— readily as school-girls run to a ball. 
Great is the voice of gold ! What a range, 
too, it has ! Now, breathing the profoundest 
notes of persuasion — deep and earnest as a | 
hermit’s homily — and now, carrying away 
the heart and senses with its light and laugh- 
ing trills, — delicious, fascinating as the voice 
of bacchante. Gold, too, is the earth’s great 
ventriloquist ; speaking from and to the belly 
of immortal man, and enslaving and juggling 
him with its many voices. 

And gold worked its vocal wonders in Tan- 
gle’s bed-chamber. For no sooner did it sound, 
than like the pipe of the charmer, it drew 
forth a little human reptile — a gutter shake 
— a noxious creature, hatched to sting the 
* world in a London lane. Aye, it was even 
fio. No sooner we say did Tangle rattle the 
gold, than a little ragged head" was thrust 
from beneath the bed’s foot ; a head, with 
eyes bright and snake-like ; sparkling the 
more, the more the metal chinked. That lit- 
tle head — what a world of wicked knowledge 
was packed within it — was the property of 


St. Giles’s half-brother, and it was said, of 
Tom Blast’s whole son, — yoiing Jingo ; the 
hero of the pocket-handkerchief ; the petted 
genius of Hog-Lane. How that adroit young- 
ling had gained the eminence of Tangle’s 
bed-chamber, we will not pause to explain. 
Of that in duo season. 

Our whole business is for the present with 
Tangle and his companion. As the old war- 
horse pricks his ears at the murderous mu- 
sic of the trumpet — as some retired and ere- 
while sharp attorney, reading some successful 
juggle juggle in the name of justice, feels his 
heart trickle as it ran red ink, and dreams 
himself again in court — so did the sound of the 
gold, as it fell from hand to hand, awaken in 
the soul of Tangle all its Plutean strength. 
Nay, his soul for a moment left him, and 
ducked and dived and took its fill of liquid 
pleasure in that golden river — that Pactolus 
embanked in a box — like a triton wallowing 
in the foamy sea 1 He felt he was in his true 
element, and eloquence flowed from his lips, 
free as a silver thread of rivulet from some old 
granite-hearted rock. 

“ Wonderful invention, gold coin, sir ! 
Wonderful thing I If there ’s any thing, sir, 
that shows man to be the creature that he is, 
— it’s this. Scholars, when they want to 
raise man above the qionkey — Heaven for- 
give the atheists — call him a laughing ani- 
mal, a tool-making animal, a cooking animal. 
Sir, they’ve all missed the true meaning ; they 
should call him a coining animal. I’ve 
thought of the matter much, Mr. Folder ; and ' 
this ” — and Tangle rattled the coin — “ this is 
the true weapon against the atheists, sir — 
and nearly all scholars are every bit the same 
as atheists — just as toadstools are often taken 
for mushrooms. No, sir, no : they may call 
men what they like, — but I see proofs of the 
immortality of the soul in this, sir. No unbe- 
liel^ — I ’m sure of it, Mr. Folder — no unbelief 
I can stand against this,” and Tangle again 
laid his hand upon the gold. 

“ The theory is ingenious — ^pei;haps true,” 
said Folder. 

“ A glorious invention, coining, sir,” again 
cried Tangle, expanding with his subject. 

“ Now, look here ; these guineas are, I may 
say, nothing more than the representatives of 
the voters of Liquorish. Here we have ’em ! 
Here I take ’em up with my hand, any num- 
ber of ’em, body and soul.” VVhereupon, 
Tangle scooped up the guineas in his palm 
and poured them down again, young Jingo 
still looking from beneath the bed, and grin- 
ning, and twitching his lips as the music con- 
tinued. “ Here th^ey are — men, women, and 
children — all packed close ; all snug. Sir, a 
man who carries these, carries heaps of his 
fellow-creatures with him. A tremendous 
art, sir, coining. They talk about the inven- 
tion of printing : why, what was coining but 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


Ill . 


printing,— that is. the better part of printing ; ' 
the soul, I may say of it, without its wicked- 
ness ! 'riiere ’s no dangerous notions in 
these, sir; no false ideas; no stuff to dizzy 
the heads of fools ; making them think them- 
selves as good as their betters ; no treason, 
sir; but all plain and above board — plain 
and above board.” And again. Tangle took 
up the coin, and dropped it — and took it up, 
and dropped it again, his heart-strings vi- 
brating to the music. 

And the church-bell rang out its summons 
to the world. And, for some moments, the 
eloquent man heard it not ; he only listened 
to his church bells — the ringing that sounded 
of his heaven. Still, he plays with the gold ; 
still the church-bell sounds. 

Toll — toll — chink — chink — toll~chink~toll 
— chink ! 

How often do many think these notes 
sound in unison ! What beautiful harmony 
to mere ears of clay ! What grating discord 
to diviner sense ! 

“ Is not that the church-bell ?” at length 
asked Mr. Folder. 

“ Bless me ! so it is. I’d forgotten — no- 
thing secular to-day;,” and Tangle closed 
the box ; locked it ; closed the closet-door ; 
locked it too. “ Stop a minute,” he obser- 
ved. He then went to his trunk, and took 
therefrom a large prayer-book, bound in 
morocco, scarlet as blood, and daubed about 
with gold. “ Never travel, Mr. Folder, with- 
out this,” said Tangle, dropping his eye-lids, 
and tenderly pressing the book with his fin- 
gers, — never, sir. Now, if you please.” 
Folder stept from the room, and Tangle vigor- 
ously locked the door: triedit once, twice, 
and putting the key in his pocket, descended 
the stairs. 

It was a lovely day ; there seemed a 
Sabbath peace on all things. The drudged 
horse stood meek and passive in the field, 
patiently eyeing the passer-by, as though it 
felt secure of one day’s holiday : the cows, 
with their large, kind looks, lay unmoved 
upon the grass; all things seemed taking 
rest beneath the brooding wings of heaven. 

We have climbed the hill — have gained 
the churchyard; the dust of the living dust 
of generations. The bell is swinging still ; 
and turning on every side, from distant ham- 
lets we see men, women, and children — 
age with its staff, and babihood warm at 
the breast — all coming upward — upward — 
to the church. Still they climb, and still 
from twenty opposite paths they come, to 
strengthen and rejoice' their souls in one 
common centre. By bigotry’s good leave, 
a fore-shadowing of that tremendous Sab- 
bath of the universe, when all men from 
all paths shall meet 'in Paradise. 

Lonn- ere the bell had ceased to summon 
the congregation, the church was filled. 


There were, however, two causes for thi> 
Christian alacrity ; although, it is our be 
lief that few even to themselves acknow- 
ledged either. Nevertheless, it was plaii 
from the eager, half-anxious looks of th( 
people, that they expected something beyonc 
the usual Sabbath comforting: that the) 
had come to see some interesting novelty 
as well as to hear the customary promise 
of good tidings. Suddenly the rustic beadU 
— he has but little external glory to mark hii 
function — gives a short, significant cough 
and hurries towards the door. All headt 
turn with him, and in a few moments, then 
is a low murmur, a hushing sound of sur- 
prise and satisfaction, as the handsome can- 
didate, the young lord St. James, with Mrs 
Gilead and” her tv/o daughters, enters the 
church, and ushered by the beadle, glide to 
the family pew. 

The church, we say, was thronged. A 
beautiful sight, doubtless, to behold in that 
small village temple, men of all conditions 
gathered together, to confess their common 
infirmities, to supplicate for common bless- 
ings ; to appear for a time, as in the vesti- 
bule of eternity, in common adoration of the 
Eternal ; all distinctions and disguises of 
earth cast aside, and all in nakedness of 
soul bending before God. 'A beautiful sight! 
And yet, the devil pride will follow some 
folks to church, to play unsightly pranks 
even before the altar. He will not be left 
at the church door, even for a poor two hours ; 
but with hypocritical demureness moves up 
the aisle, and enters- a pew, all the better 
to mutter deep devotion. Look down the 
middle aisle. It is filled with common peo- 
ple — with God’s commonest earth : farming 
men, labourers, artizans ; the drudges of the 
world, who are nevertheless told by the good 
man in the pulpit that they have — every one 
— within them, an immortal angel. They 
are assured that all wealth is vanity ; they 
are passionately desired to look upon pride 
and arrogance as deadly sins; and with these 
lovely precepts touching their heart-strings, 
they look on each side and see ladies and 
gentlemen — called by the clergyman their 
fellow-creatures— shut up in pews, set apart 
in closets ; as, thoug:h in the presence of 
their Maker, and whilst denouncing them- 
selves miserable sinners, they would vindi- 
cate their right of money, and buy of heaven 
itself the privilege of first consideration. 
Poverty and humbleness of station may sit 
upon the middle benches: but wealth and 
what is mouthed for respectability must have 
cribs apirt for themselves — must be con- 
sidered Christian jewels to be kept in vel- 
vet boxes — lest they should catch the disease 
of lowliness by contact with the vulgar. 
Surely there are more masquerades than 
masquerades in halls and play-houses. For 


112 


THE HISTORY OF 


are there not Sabbath maskings, with naked 
faces for masks? How many a man has 
himself rolled to church, as though, like Eli- 
jah, he must go even to heaven in a carriage ? 

The church was full. Faces, familiar to 
the reader, were there. Capstick and Bright 
Jem sat on the middle benches ; whilst St. 
Giles, at the extreme end of the church, 
fixed in a corner, had anxiously v/atched for 
the appearance of St. James ; and when he 
again beheld him, appeared to give fervent 
thanks for the blessing. Mr. Kingcup with 
about twenty red-faced little boys — Kingcup, 
be it known, was a schoolmaster — sat in 
the gallery. Mr. Tangle and Mr. Folder 
were, of course, provided with comfortable 
seats in a most comfortable pew. 

Doctor Gilead preached the sermon. We 
are sure that the doctor himself was igno- 
rant of the bias, yet was he a party parson. 
Hence — he could not help it — he selected 
a text from which he evolved the social 
necessity of the many trusting the few. 
We may not transcribe to our profane page 
the sacred text and solemn discourse deli- 
vered on the -occasion. All we may do, is 
to assure the reader that the excellent doctor 
preached with his best earnestness. Again 
he bade his hearers live in the days of the 
patriarchs : again he conjured them to put 
away conceit, and faith in their own weak 
judgments, and disobedience to their betters 
happily appointed to guide and protect them. 
(Here — all unconsciously — the doctor turned 
towards St, James’s pew, and looked be- 
nignly down upon his lordship.) It was 
plain that the doctor thought himself a shep- 
herd of the patriarchal times ; and it was 
no less plain that he thought all his hearers 
merely sheep. He made a deep impression 
upon many. At least two old dames — far- 
mers’ wives in red cloaks — wept : whilst 
half a dozen grey heads were seen to nod 
approvingly. Capstick, it was evident, had 
a cold: hence,. twice he coughed so loudly, 
that both the beadle and Bright Jem looked 
anxiously at him, whilst two or three others 
seemed to say “ people with such a cold 
should not come to church.” 

It was, in sooth, no vvonder that Doctor 
Gilead melted his hearers. His words were 
so soft," so flowing; they fell like summer 
honey-dew. Then his aspect was so calm — 
so very comfortable. He had the cure of, 
we know not how many thousand souls. He 
had souls in Oxfordshire — souls in Norfolk 
— souls in Middlesex — nay, souls in at least 
half-a-dozen counties — good Mother Church 
had so bountifully endowed her pet son, — and 
yet there was not a wrinkle in his cheek to 
tell the anxiety of so tremendous a responsi- 
bility. Had the thousands of souls been so 
many thousand chickens. Dr. Gilead could 
not have looked more easy under his charge. 


But the service is over. The small organ 
peals it farewell notes. The organ — be it 
known — given by the house of St. James for 
a political purpose ; thus adroitly blending 
the music of party with the music of religion. 
What a world’s harmony ! 


CHAPTER XXL 

“ He’s grown a fine young man.” said 
Bright Jem, whose talk was of St. James. 

‘‘ Why, he’s tall enough for a member of 
Parliament,” said Mr. Capstick. 

“He’s a good un, too, I know it,” said 
Jem. “ I’m sure, if he didn’t look as meek 
and as humble, and wasn’t as attentive to the 
discourse ! and it was a nice sermon, wasn’t 
it? Perhaps a little too much o’ putting 
people over people’s heads ; but still it was 
comfortable ; though now and then to be 
sure, the doctor did, as I think, take a little 
too much upon himself. How he did give it 
to ’em who he said were out of the palings 
of the church ! How he did dress ’em to be 
sure ! And how, upon his own authority, he 
said they’d suffer.” 

“ James,” said Capstick — for so he dignifi- 
ed Jem when wishing to be solemn — “ James, 
do you recollect the words, ‘ And God said, 
Let us make man in our image, after our 
likeness ?’ ” 

“ I should think I did,” said Jem, uncon- 
sciously pulling qff his hat. 

“ Ha ! that’s beautiful and consoling, isn’t 
it ? And what a fine creature is' Man, so 
long as he always has these words before 
his eyes, and so tries to do nothing but what 
shall be some way worthy of his likeness ! 
To do this, James, is to make this world a 
pleasant place — and to have everybody happy 
about us. ‘ And God said. Let us make man 
in our image !’ This is beautiful : but it’s 
sad, it’s melancholy work, Jem, when Man 
says, ‘ Let us make God in our image !’ ” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Jem, “ it’s ut- 
terly impossible. ’Tisn’t to be done, no how.” 

“ Jem, it’s been done for thousands of years ; 
it’s being done every day.” Jem stared. 
“ Yes, Jem; for when man, in spiritual mat- 
ters, persecutes man — when in the name of 
religion, and as he says, vindicating God, he 
commits violence and cruelty upon his fel- 
low-creatures, then does he in his own igno- 
rance make for a time his Maker after his 
own erring and revengeful nature — then does 
he make God in his own image 1 Look at 
the burnings and roastings of poor human 
flesh — its hangings and quarterings, its im- 
prisonment and exile in the name of religion. 
What are all these, but that man does all 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


113 


this wickedii'soS in the name of God; that is, 
he thinks God is pleased with what pleases 
his own vile, vindictive nature ; and as I 
take it — and it can’t be denied — after such 
fashion it is, that man makes God after his 
own image. Many folks — poor souls — think 
this the best religion. Jem, it’s nothing more 
nor less than worst blasphemy.” 

Saying this, Mr. Capstick rose from the 
grave-stune, whereupon — in summer time — 
he was wont to sit for half-an-hour or so 
after the service, talking with his old com- 
panion and enjoying the lovely prospect be- 
low and around him. “ Now, Jem, to din- 
der and Capstick was proceeding in lauda- 
ble pursuit of that object of man’s daily cares, 
when he paused and pointed towards St. 
Giles, who was loitering in the churchyard. 
“ Jem, isn’t that our wet friend ?” 

“ In course it is,” said Jem. “ Didn’t 
you see him in the church? There’s a 
strangeness about him, but for all that I don’t 
know that I don’t like him.” 

“ Humph ! I don’t know that I do,” said 
the misanthrope. “ But it’s plain that he’s 
been dodging hereabout after us.” With 
this, Capstick advanced towards St. Giles. 
“ Glad to see you here,” he said. “Reading 
the tombstones, eh ? Ha ! they’re books 
that now and then we all ought to read, see- 
ing that one day we shall all have our names 
in ’em.” 

“ All as can afford ’em,” said Jem, with a 
literalness that sometimes tried the temper of 
his patron. 

“ I don’t care for stones,” answered Cap- 
stick. “ Show me a bit of green turf ; why, 
sometimes I can fancy written in the grass 
as nice an epitaph as was ever chipped by 
stone-cutter.” 

“ I wanted, sir, to see you,” said St. Giles 
to Capstick. “ I left you in a manner so sud- 
den. I wanted to say something.” 

■' “ Speak, out,” cried Capstick. “ A man 

can’t speak tlie truth — whether it be sweet 
or sour — in h better place.” 

Still St. Giles hesitated. Looking full at 
Capstick, at length he asked with an earnest 
voice — “ And you don’t know me, sir ?” 
Capstick, after a full stare, shook his head. 
“ You ought, sir ; indeed, you ought ; for you 
did me a deal of good. I’ve a secret about 
me, that if known would hang me : but I’m 
safe in telling you.” 

“ I don’t know that,” said Capstick. “ I 
wouldn’t answer for myself at all. It might 
be my duty to hang you: as an honest and 
respectable man, as the world goes, I might 
consider it a praiseworthy thing to strangle 
you. Mind what you’re about,” cried the 
misanthrope, moving gradually away. — “ I’m 
rather given to hanging ; I am indeed, young 
man.” 

“ I’d trust a thousand lives with you, sir,” 


said St. Giles, approaching him. “ And so, sir, 
you must know — ” 

“ Well ? What ?” cried Capstick, alarmed 
at the terrible news about to be revealed. “ I 
shall hang you ; but if you will, speak.” 

St. Giles looked round ; then suddei^y, as 
though death-struck, turned ghastly pale. He 
stammered out — “ Not now, sir ; another 
time,” and walked swiftly from the church- 
yard. 

“ Jem,” said Capstick, “ we shall hear of 
burglary, perhaps murder, before to-morrow. 
That’s a desperate fellow, Jem.” 

“ Not a bit on it,” answered Jem. “ Poor 
soul ! he looks as if he was deeper in trouble 
than in wickedness.” . In truth, this was 
Capstick’s own opinion, albeit he chose not 
60 to deliver it. He had to keep up a char- 
acter for suspicion and misanthropy, and 
therefore would see, as he called them, hang- 
ing lines in every other human countenance. 

However, leaving the pair to pursue their 
way to the Tub, we may at once narrate to 
the reader the cause that startled St. Giles 
from his purpose, making him slink “like a 
guHty thing away.” When, in a preceding 
chapter, St. Giles quitted Hog Lane, he was, 
it may be remembered, followed to the burial- 
ground by his half-brother. It was the hope 
of St. Giles that he had taken final leave of 
his old destroyer, Tom Blast. However, that 
scholar in iniquity, wouldn’t have it so. 
Hence, he commanded the ready imp Jingo 
stealthily to -^follow St. Giles — to watch 
wheresoever he might go, and straightway 
return with the news. Jingo performed his 
function with admirable address. At the 
Cocoa-Tree Tom learnt the whole story of 
the election. He also picke 4 up the grateful 
intelligence that the Yellow party had need 
of fighting patriots ; and though Torn’s char- 
acter was more of Ulysses than Achilles, he 
nevertheless scrupled not to take the wages 
of a warrior in the cause of purity of election. 
And then, ardent in the cause, it appeared to 
him that the talents of his son — as on occa- 
sion he ingenuously declared Jingo to be — 
would potently assist the noble struggle. 
“The boy piped like any nightingal, and 
would sing ’em all to sticks in ballads.” 
Whereupon, young Jingo received an ap- 
pointment as minstrel to the cause ; and 
with his father was dispatched straight to 
Liquorish. 

Now the vehicle that contained Tom Blast 
and his singing-boy, also carried some dozen 
other humble Yellows. The merits of the 
opposing candidates were discussed with that 
freedom which is one of the happy privileges 
of our constitution. Whereupon it came out 
in discourse that the agent for the Blues had 
taken with him a chest filled with gold : more 
than enough to bribe every honest man in the 
kingdom. This news sank into the heart of 


114 


THE HISTORY OP 


Blast like water in sand. All the remainder 
of the wa}',' he thought of that chest of gold 
devoted to corrupt honest men, and thought 
how sweet, how justifiable it would be could 
he save honesty from such temptation by 
making it his own. St. Giles was of the 
Blue party : somewhat, no doubt of it, in the 
confidence of tlie agent of St. James. It was 
only to hang on to St. Giles — to work upon 
the terrors of the transport — to obtain a po- 
tent ally in the felony. Already, Blast saw 
himself the master of a golden treasure ; .and 
perhaps his first luck might so come back to 
him, things might be so managed, that St. 
Giles alone might be left to pay the penalty. 
It was plain that providence had intended the 
chicken-hearted fool the gull for wiser fel- 
lows, and Tom was determined not to forego 
his privilege. 

Arrived at Liquorish, Tom in vain sought 
St. Giles. Nevertheless, he had made all 
use of the boy. The urchin being shown 
the abode of Tangle, hung about the house, 
until he discovered the sleeping-room of that 
sagacious man. Such discovery was soon 
made, Mr. Tangle appearing at the window 
of his bed-chamber. Tangle was a cautious 
man : it was his reputation — his pride. It 
has been seen with what especial care he 
locked the closet — locked the chest that con- 
tained his gold — locked the chamber-door: 
but — by one of those accidents with which 
Beelzebub delights himself to cheat his best 
friends — Mr. Tangle forgot, when he des- 
cended to breakfast, to close his chamber 
window. This tremendous error was not 
unobserved by Jingo and his paternal tutor, 
both being on the watch for accidents. The 
window, we say, was open; and chance 
seemed to offer a glorious means of success ; 
for an old vine, growing at the wall, offered 
to the agile limbs of Jingo a most accommo- 
dating ladder. He watched his moment. It 
was early Sunday morning ; and nobody 
was in the street. In a couple of minutes 
he had mounted the topmost branch of the 
vine, was in at the window, and in a second 
was under the bed of Tangle. Here he lay 
a few minutes, taking breath : he then stole 
forth, and approaching the casement an- 
nounced by signs to his anxious father in the 
street, that all was right. Whereupon, his 
parent, with few but significant gestures, re- 
plied to the boy. We are fortunately en- 
abled to anticipate to the reader the meaning 
of this pantomime. It was, that Jingo should 
keep close until night: and then perform a 
feat that would gild him with renown. Jingo 
felt the importance of the part put upon him 
by his adventurous yet careful father: for 
Tom Blast had provided the boy with apples 
and biscuits in his pockets, that he might 
solace and sustain himself the while he lay 
in wait. And Jingo showed himself worthy 


of his early training. True it is, that Molly 
the maid — having for a short time begged the 
key of Mr. Tangle — entered the chamber, 
yet Jingo, braced for the occasion, silently 
munched his biscuit and trembled not. Molly 
made the bed, singing a rustic ditty the while, 
and Jingo, cosy and quiet, rather enjoyed the 
melody than feared the singer. Could Mr. 
Blast have known the composed heroism of 
his child, he would have felt in all its fulness, 
the paternal pride. He, however, continued 
his search for St. Giles. At length he 
gathered at the Rose that his friend — as he 
had denominated him — had gone to church. 
He had caused some merriment among the 
band and others by such eccentricity — never- 
theless, he had gone to his devotions. Blast 
cared not to follow him inside the edifice, but 
lingered about the churchyard — watching the 
congregation depart. Already he saw St. 
Giles approach ; but seeing him about to ac- 
cosc Capstick he shrank behind a tomb-stone : 
and thus it was, whilst watching Yrom this 
position, that he was recognised by the quick 
eye of St. Giles, who fled as from a wild 
beast. 

We have now to return to Tangle and 
Folder. To their astonishment and °delight 
they had — even at the church porch — been 
invited to dine at Lazarus Hall. There was 
a condescension, an urbanity, about dear 
Doctor Gilead, that was not to be refused ; 
and the doctor’s carriage being sent to the . 
Olive Branch, the happy couple departed for ' 
the rectory. The dinner was magniflcent. 
Of this we feel assured; for Tangle on his 
progress back to the inn, at least fifty times 

declared so. “What wine too !” he cried 

“the man, sir, who can give wine like that 
ought to be a bishop— a bishop, sir ; certainly 
a bishop.” This opinion Mr. Tangle em- 
phasized by again and again slapping the 
knee of Mr. Folder, who in vain endeavored 
to moderate Tangle’s admiration, by answer- 
ing— “ My dear sir,”— “ My very dear sir,” 
— but it availed not. 

It was evident from the condition of Mr. 
Tangle that he did not place wine among- 
secular things : otherwise he had not on such 
a day meddled so busily with the rector’s 
port. Mr. Tangle was a particularly sober 
man. It was the boast of Mrs. Tangle that 
he had never been seen intoxicated : a boast 
that has with it a certain equivocation. But, 
it is a truism, every man has his weak mo- 
ments. Had he not, what an awful person 
would he be— how set apart, how distantly 
removed from his fellow-men,— frail, daily 
sinners ! No ; it is because great men have 
their weaknesses, that we may assert our 
common nature with them. We should be 
abashed, indeed utterly confounded, by their 
heads of glittering metal,— did we not espy 
their little toes of clay, that reconcile us by 


115 


ST. GILES AN] 

the assurance, that they have about them our 
father Adam’s common mark. Hence, our 
reverence may be softened into love ; — com- 
mon weakness breeds common affection. 

But we owe the palliation to Tangle : sure 
we are, had the patriot not been so strong, 
the man would not have been so drunk. He 
had been so animated, so rapt by the prospect 
of Lord St. James’s success — so inexpressi- 
bly indignant towards the corrupt and vil- 
lanous machinations of the Yellows, — that 
when he wanted words, as he so very often 
did, to express the intensity of his feelings, 
he invariably applied himself to his wine- 
glass. At a very early hour of the evening, 
he had got drunk out of pure admiration of 
the English Constitution. Nor, let the truth 
be said, was Mr. Folder innocent of liquor. 
But, he had this saving clause to himself, — 
if he was drunk, he was drunk like a gentle- 
man. That is, he neither sang, nor roared, 
nor slapt his comrade on his knee or shoulder, 
Tbut sat, silently winking his eyes like an owl 
in the sun, and now and then performing a 
slight cough, as it appeared to him to set 
right his dignity. 

What change of climate often is to a sick 
man, change of house is to a drunken one. 
He feels the stronger for the removal, and 
therefore drinks again. It was thus with Mr. 
Tangle. Hence, when safely seated in the 
Olive Branch, he declared that he must have 
“ one glass more — only one” — the glass, that 
like Macbeth^s, shows the tippler “ many 
more.” Briefly — for why should we linger 
with the bacchanal ? — Mr. Tangle was led 
by the boots and chamber-maid to his bed- 
room, Mr. Folder, with a hard struggle for 
seeming sobriety, carrying a candle which in 
his unsteady hand let fall anointing drops of 
tallow on the head of the vinous and patriotic 
lawyer. Arrived at the top of the stairs. 
Tangle insisted upon being left to his own 
guidance. Did they want to insult him? 
Did they think him drunk ? He knew the 
way to his own room ; and would have no 
spies upon his doings. A dim sense of the 
treasure in his dormitory seemed to steal upon 
him, and make him of a sudden savagely 
resolute.' He tried at three or four doors, 
insisting that each was his proper door ; and 
then gradually giving it up as in no way be- 
longing to him. Then he burst into a loud 
laugh, and declared it was droll — devilish 
droll. “ Tliis reminds me of another inn I 
once slept in,” he cried — “ another tavern, 
where all the doors always changed places 
after twelve o’clock.” At length, he was 
half-shuffled, half-guided into hi? own apart- 
ment; where, forbidding any one on pain of 
death to follow him, he was left alone. He 
cautiously locked the door, and taking the 
key out proceeded with devious steps to place 
it under his pillow. He then ^taggered to 


) 8T. JAMErt. 

the door of the closet that contained his trea- 
sure ; and grinned, and pawed and stroked 
it up and down as though he was caressing 
some animate thing. By the dim twinkling 
of the rushlight, young Jingo — his head pro- 
truded from the bed’s foot, like the head of a 
tortoise from beneath its shell — watched the 
drunkard ; and, it must be owned, felt some- 
thing like a sense of contempt for his con- 
dition. It was plain the urchin thought the 
glory of the robbery lessened at least half by 
the helpless state of the victim to be robbed. 
The boy, in the vivacity of youthful blood, 
had expected to see the gentleman gagged at 
least and tied to the bed-post ; and now he 
would be made to render up his gold patiently 
as a sheep its wool. Leaving the closet, 
Tangle approached the bed, and still smiling 
at his wondrous cunning, placed his watch 
under the mattress. He next drew from his 
waistcoat a small pair of pistols which, having 
eyed with a look of maudlin tenderness, and 
addressed as his dear preservers, he attempted 
to place in the watch-pocket at the head of 
the bed. Unfortunately, they slipped from 
his fingers, fell at the bed-side, and were in- 
stantly secured by young Jingo. Tangle 
paused ; stooped ; fumbled about the floor, 
then with a grunt of resignation, gave up the 
search. ‘^He shouldn’t want ’em — no; he 
knew he shouldn’t want ’em.” At length 
assisted by the unseen genii that in tlieir 
benevolence await upon and solace drunken 
men, Mr. Tangle found himself between the 
sheets. His head fell like a lump of dead 
clay upon the pillow ; and in two or three 
minutes, he was sunk fathoms deep in 
drunken oblivion. 

Jingo, hopeful child ! had a quick eye for 
business. Mr. Tangle had divested himself 
of his wardrobe at the bedside : and it was a 
pretty sight — it would, in sooth, have warmed 
the paternal . bosom of Tom Blast, could he 
have beheld Jingo seize garment by garment, 
and with unerring sagacity, instandy apply 
himself to every pocket. Purse, handker- 
chief, pocket-book — nay, even, a curious old 
steel tobacco-stopper, a Tangle heir-loom — 
were quickly in the possession? of young 
Jingo. And so, ending the present chapter, 
we leave them : Tangle in his bed dreaming 
of triumph ; and Jingo under it, really tasting 
the sweet fruits of plunder. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Jingo was born for greatness. He had 
in his character the great element of a great 
general — a great statesman ; marvellous self- 
possession. Meaner boys would have been 


116 


THE HISTORY OF 


in a flutter of impatience ; not so with the 
pupil of Tom Blast. Hence, he sat under 
the bed, with critical ear, listening to the 
hard breathing of the drunken man, who soon 
began to snore with such discordant vehe- 
mence that Jingo feared the sleeper might 
awaken his bottle friend, Mr. Folder. Jingo 
knew it not ; but his testimony would have 
been very valuable to Mrs. Tangle ; for the 
snoring of her husband was one of the dis- 
quietudes of that all-suffering woman ; the 
rather, too, that the man constantly denied 
his tendency to the habit. He never snored. 
Of course not; nobody ever -does. Now 
Jingo might have been a valuable witness on 
the side of Mrs. Tangle, who could never 
succeed, talk as she would, in impressing her 
husband with a sense of his infirmity- On 
the contrary, her accusation was wont to be 
repelled as a gross slander ; an imputation 
unworthy of a wife and a woman. It is bad 
enough to endure an evil, but to have the 
nuisance treated as a malicious fiction, 
makes it intolerable. And Mrs. Tangle felt 
it so. Of this, however, by the way. Re- 
turn we to Jingo. 

With knowing, delicate ear, the child con- 
tinued to listen to the stertorous agent. At 
length, the boy crept from beneath the bed, 
and treading lightly as a fairy at a bridal 
couch, he made his way to the window. 
Now, had anybody attempted to open it for 
any honest purpose — had Molly, the maid, 
for instance, sought to raise it merely to 
give her opinion of the moon and the night 
to any rustic astronomer below — it is very 
certain, that the window would have stuck, 
and jarred, and rattled ; it was too old and 
crazy to be made a comfortable confident in 
any such foolish business. Ten to one, but 
it had waked thb mistress of the Olive 
Branch, who would inevitably have nudged 
the master. And now a robbery was to be 
done — a most tremendous robbery — perhaps, 
to be further solemnised by homicide — for 
who should say that the Parcse who wove 
the red tape of the life of Tangle, attorney- 
at-law, were not about to snip it ? — who 
shall say that so awful a crisis did not at 
that moment impend — and yet silently went 
the window up ; easily, smoothly, as though 
greased by some witch ; smeared with lat 
'• from murderer’s gibbet.” It is a pity that 
the devil makes evil so very easy to the 
meanest understanding. 

Two or three minutes passed, not more, 
and Tom Blast thrust his head and one of 
his legs into the chamber. There was a 
grim smile upon his face — a murderous 
simper at his mouth — a brassy brightrtess in 
his eyes, that showed him to be upon a la- 
bour of love. No soldier ever scaled a wall, 
to receive, it may be, a bullet or a bayonet, 
with the after-leaf of laurel that the -Gazette 


punctually lets fall upon his grave — no hero, 
we say, his nerves strung with shouts, his 
heart beating to the beating drums, his blood 
boiling at slaughter heat, his whole soul brea- 
thing fire and gunpowder, and all to gloriously 
slay and sack, and burn, — no such adventurous 
plumed biped ever looked more grimly beauti- 
ful than did that low-thoughted burglar, that 
leprous-minded thief. Strange and mournful 
this to think of ! For what was there good or 
noble to make his muscles iron ? What holy 
flame of patriotism raged in his heart, refining 
its grossness — what laurel could he hope for 
wet with a nation’s tears, nations always 
weeping when the private soldier falls ! He 
had none of these exalting elements to subli- 
mate him, for a time, into an immortal imp 
of glory. His motive was gold.; brutalizing 
gold ! His enemy, if he came to close quar- 
ters, a weak, wine-soddened old man. His 
fate, if he should fail, no laurel wreath, but 
suffocating rope. And yet, we say, the con- 
ceit of poor humanity ! We feel humbled for 
our nature, but we must declare the truth. 
Well, then, Thomas Blast, prepared for rob- 
bery, and it might be, bloodshed, looked as 
horribly animated — as ferociously happy — as 
though he had mounted some Indian ram- 
part, graciously commissioned to slay man, 
woman, and child, to pillage and to burn, and 
all for glory — all for the everlasting fame — 
of who shall count how many years, or 
months, or days ! How very different the 
picture — the fates of the two men ! And 
then, again, there is no Old Bailey (at least 
in this world) for the mighty men of the 
bully burglar. Mars ! 

Whilst writing this piece of villany as, 
should it strangely enough find its way into 
any barrack, it will be called, we have not 
kept Tom Blast astride upon the window-sill. 
Oh no ! he has business to perform — hard, 
worldly business, as he deems it — and he has 
entered the chamber ; and with much com- 
posure — a placidity which it has been seen 
he has transmitted to his son — he gazes at 
the sleeping, hard-breathing Tangle. Mr 
Blast was not a man, in any way, above his 
profession. He never neglected, however 
petty they might be, any of the details of 
his art. This feeling of precision was, we 
have no doubt, born with him; and long 
custom had brought the principle, or what- 
ever it was, as near to perfection as may be 
allowed to any achievement of fallible hu- 
manity. Had destiny put Blast in the re- 
spectable position of the attorney in the bed, 
sure we are, it would have been the same 
with him. Certain we are he would have 
been as particular with his inkborn, his pen, 
his parchment, his ferret, — as he now was 
with his equipments of dark lantern, crow- 
bar, and rope. 

For some moments, Blast, by the aid of 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


117 


his lantern, looked meditatingly upon Tangle. 
Possibly he felt such a deep sense of secu- 
rity that he liked to dally with his subject 
-—to coquet with robbery — to gently sport 
with sin, to give it a sweeter flavour. For 
this is a trick of humanity : in evidence of 
which, we could and we would quote rosy 
examples : but no ; we will not treat the 
reader — in this history we have never yet 
done so — as though his bosom was stuffed, 
doll-like, with bran : we believe that he has 
a heart beating in it, and to that interpreter, 
we write, as we should say, many things in 
short hand : sometimes we may lose by it ; 
nevertheless, we disdain to spell every pas- 
sion with its every letter. 

“ He’d never be stole for his beauty, would 
he. Jingo ?” asked Blast, in a loud whisper, 
blandly smiling. 

“ And whatever beauty he has, he shuts it 
up when he goes to sleep,” replied the child. 
“ Oh, isn’t he drunk !” the boy added, with 
considerable zest. 

“ He is,” said Blast, who still looked con- 
templative. Then shading the lantern, to 
catch the best view of Tangle’s face, he con- 
tinued — “ What a horrible pictur ! He looks 
as if he’d come from Indy in a cask of spirits, 
and was just laid out, afore he was to be 
buried. Jingo, my boy” — and the paternal 
hand was gently laid upon the boy’s head — 
“ Jingo, your poor father may have his faults, 
lik other men — I can’t say he mayn’t ; no ; 
but he isn’t a drunkard, Jingo, else he hadn’t 
got on the little he has in the world — he 
hadn’t indeed. And so, take warning by 
what you see — by what you see,” and Blast 
stretching his arm towards the sleeper, said 
this is a low voice — touchingly, that is, pa- 
ternally. “ And now. Jingo, where’s the 
shiners ?” asked the man of business. ^ 

The thoughtless reader may deem it 
strange, unnatural, that a man about to per- 
petrate gibbet-work should thus coolly delay, 
and after his own fashion, moralize. But 
then the reader must ponder on the effect of 
long habit.' In his first battle— though com- 
mon history says nothing of it — Julius Ca3- 
sar, not from cowardice, but from a strange 
inward perturbation, bled at the nose : simi- 
lar accidents may have happened to other 
heroes when they have drawn what with an 
odd gallantry is called their maiden sword. 
Still the reader may not yet comprehend the 
composure of Tom Blast. The more his 
Joss. But then, probably, the reader has 
/ never been a housebreaker. 

Return we to our colloquy. “ Jingo 
where’s the shiners ?” • 

“ There !” said the boy, pointing to the 
closet : “ and see,” he whispered, with a 
proud look, at the same time producing Tan- 
gle’s pistols— see. I’ve got his pops !” 

This touch of early prudence and sagacity 


was too much for a father^s heart. Tom felt 
himself melted, as with undisguised tender- 
ness he said, taking an oath to the fact — 
“ Weil, you are a bloomer! you are—” 

At this moment. Tangle rolled upon his 
side, gabbling something in his sleep. On 
the instant, Jingo was at the bed-side, with 
both his pistols presented at the sleeper’s 
head. The eyes of the little wretch glittered 
like a snake’s— his lips were compressed — 
his eyebrows knit — his nostrils swelling. 
At a thought, he looked an imp of murder. 

“ There’s a beauty,” said the encouraging 
Blast, “ don’t let him wag — if he should”— ^ 
it was needless for Blast to finish the injunc-- 
tion ; a terrible grin, and a nod from Jingo, 
showed that he clearly understood the pater- 
nal wish. 

“ This is the closet, eh ?” said Blast, with 
a very contemptuous look at the frail parti- 
tion between him and El Dorado. Then 
Blast took a small crowbar from his pocket ; 
a remarkably neat, portable instrument. For 
some seconds he stood twirling it in his hand 
with the composed air of a professor. Had 
he been a fashionable fiddler, he could not 
have fondled his alchemic Cremona more 
tenderly, more lovingly. 

One moment he looks at the door. Ha ! 
that was the touch of a master ! How it was 
done, we know not. By what sleight — ^what 
dexterity of hand, we cannot guess, but in a 
few seconds, the door yielding to- the instru- 
ment, opens with a dull, sudden sound ; and 
Tom Blast purveys Tangle’s chest of gold. 
Blast’s son and heir still presenting two pis- 
tols at Tangle’s drunken head. 

At the opening of the door. Jingo looked 
round and laughed. Before, his eyes were 
bent upon the sleeping man ; and it was 
plain, from the working of the boy’s face, that 
he was fighting with some horrid thought — • 
some damnable temptation. There was he with 
death in his two little hands ; there was he 
with a terrible curiosity growing in his fea- 
ture| : his lips trembled, and he shifted un- 
easily on his feet ; he breathed hard ; he 
glanced, for an instant, down the muzzle of 
each pistol. There was the man — sleeping 
— still alive, though seethed in drink, and 
looking like death. There he was — the 
dreaming man with his dreaming murderer. 
For should the devil — and the boy felt him 
at his side — should the demon only jog his 
elbow, crook his finger — and how odd, how 
strange, how very curious it would be, to see 
that sleeping face, with a flash, asleep in 
death ; to catch the look — the brief one look, 
as .the soul shot into darkness ! 

But Tom Blast suddenly burst the door, 
and the boy laughed and trembled. He 
thought it very strange — very odd — he could 
have wept. 

“ All right,” ^id Tom, “ we’re lords for 


118 


THE HISTORY OF 


life !” He then laid hands upon the box — ' 
paused — and looked suddenly blank. Way- 
ward, obstinate Plutus ! He would not be 
lifted — no, in his heavy majesty, he would 
not be made to .budge. Again and again 
Tom Blast essayed to stir the god — to take 
him in his loving arms, and, hugging him to 
his breast, to bear the divinity to some sweet 
solitude, and make him all his own. Pro- 
voking, was it not, that that which added to 
the treasure, added to the difficulty ? Tom 
could have cursed the patriotism of the voters 
of Liquorish, that — the immovable box de- 
clared it — bore so high a price. He had no 
belief that their virtue could have been so 
very valuable — to themselves. Tom, how- 
ever, would not be baffled. No ; a voice 
issued from the box, that, like the voice of 
jeering beauty, at once piqued and animated 
him. And now he was resolved. His sinews 
might crack — his Adam’s clay might be 
flawed beneath the load — nevertheless, he 
would lift it. 

“Jingo,” whispered Tom, “don’t move a 
foot. The damned box” — in this way does 
ungrateful man too often treat his superflux 
of wealth 1— “ can’t be fowered out of win- 
dow; ’twould go smash. Pll creep down stairs, 
unbolt the door, and then.” Blast had said 
enough; Jingo nodded his perfect compre- 
hension of his father’s plan ; and the robber, 
silently as a shadow creeps along the floor, 
passed from the room. Jingo was alone — 
alone, with his murderous toys — for him they 
were very playthings — and the sleeping sot. 
Again, did strange thoughts tingle in that 
mistaught little brain — again did a devilish 
spirit of mischief begin to possess him, when 
his paternal monitor returned, with a light- 
ened, a pleased look. 

It was doubtless, a charming sight — a 
spectacle hugely enjoyed by the few select 
spectators — to behold Hercules make his 
final muscular preparation for the achieve- 
ment of any one of his labors. The majestv 
of will — that moral regality of man — giust 
have so beamed and flashed around his 
brows, that even the gods may have looked 
from the windows of heaven, pleased with a 
royalty that seemed a shadow of their own. 
And so be of good heart ye many sons of 
Hercules, fighting, wrestling with the mon- 
sters of adverse fate — be of good faith, though 
you combat in the solitude of a desert ; never- 
theless, believe it, if ye fight courageously, 
there are kind looks from heaven always 
beaming on you ! 

We incline to the belief that Tom Blast 
had never heard of Hercules; or if indeed 
he had, the name was so associated with the 
Pillars, that if he ever considered the matter 
at all, he may perchance have thought Her- 
cules some very famous tapster, and that 
certain London hostelri js known as Hercules’ 


Pillars, merely eternized his reputation. We 
forget, too, the name of the antiquary who 
wrote a very thick book, proving that the pil- 
lars set up by Hercules — vulgarly supposed 
to commemorate his labors — were no other 
than a very classic public-house, wherein, 
after his last day’s work, he drained his cool 
tankard. Be this as it may. Blast was in no 
way strengthened by the thought of the re- 
forming Hercules, when he prepared himself 
to lift upon his shoulder that bitter sweet — 
that “ heavy lightness, serious vanity” — that 
sustaining, crushing weight of gold. Never- 
theless, the preparation of Blast was Worthy 
of the best scoundrel hero of the world’s old 
age and weakness. He looked at the box 
with flashing resolution — set his teeth — fixed 
his feet — and put forth his arms, as though 
he would root up an oak. 

And now shout, ye imps ! Scream, ye 
devilkins, — for it is done ! The gold is on 
the thief’s shoulder ! His knees quiver be- 
neath the sudden wealth — his chest labors 
— his face grows purple as grapes — and the 
veins in his gibbet brow start thick and black 
with blood — yet a proud smile plays about 
his horse-shoe mouth, and he looks a New- 
gate hero ! 

Breathing hard, in hoarse whispers, the 
robber gives directions to the boy — “ Jingo — 
good fellow — don’t stir — ^only a minute — 
only a minute — when I’m clear off— then — 
you know.” And with this broken counsel, 
Blast — his strength strained to the utmost, 
turned to the door — and staggered from the 
room. Young Jingo’s face darkened, and 
now he glanced towards the window, to se- 
cure himself a safe retreat, now he listened 
to catch the progress of his father’s footsteps. 
To trip — to stumble but an inch — and what 
a cradling summons to the whole household 
would result from that fallen heap of gold ! 
Still he listened, and still he felt re-assured ! 
The robber made silent and successful pro- 
gress. It was a difficult passage — that nar- 
row crooked staircase ; and as the thief ac- 
commodated his burthen to its winding way, 
thoughts of mortality would come into the 
thief’s brain ; for he marvelled how when 
anybody died — and it was an old, old house 
— they carried the coffin down that confined, 
sinuous path. But gold — heart-strengthen- 
ing gold— is on his shoulders, and he bears 
up with Atlantean will, the whilst he moves 
along noiselessly as the hare limps on the 
greensward. He has crossed the threshold — 
closed the door behind him — he is in the wide 
world, with his fortune on his shoulders. 
Whitlier shall he go ? 

Direct, assist him, ye good genii that, all 
unseen, favour and strengthen the mere 
money-maker ; the man, who only eats, and 
drinks, and takes his temperate rest, that he 
may be keener at a bargain, sharper for profit. 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAJIES. 


119 


How many, — save that their golden burdens 
are lawful gains, that is, obtained by no gross 
violation of the statute — are, like Tom Blast, 
puzzled, confounded, by the very treasure 
they have toiled for ? What a hard, ungrate- 
ful weight, — their monstrous wealth ! {Some- 
how, with all the blessings mingled with it, 
they cannot extract heart’s ease from it. 
They sweat and toil under the load, when — 
though they know not how to secure the 
happiness — they would fain sit themselves 
down on some green, pleasant spot, and en- 
joy their long-toiled-for delight. No, it may 
not be. The spirit — the sole possessing 
spirit that, day and night, made them subdue 
all gentler, softer influences, to the one ex- 
hausting purpose, wealth — the spirit is still 
their despot, and rules them as tyrannously 
when in cloth of gold, as when in frieze. 
They have worked, sweated for the precious 
load ; and, when obtained, it is hung about 
with fears. How many have crawled, brute- 
like, on all-fours through dirty, winding ways 
to wealth, with the sweet unction at their 
souls that, arrived at the glorious bourne, 
they would then walk very erect ; would 
cleanse themselves of the’ inevitable defile- 
ments of the road ; would, in sooth, become 
veiy sweet men indeed. Well, they have 
reached the shrine ; they have learned the 
true “ Open Sesame !” — they are rich, past 
all their morning dreams of wealth — but 
somehow, there is the trick of old habit, — 
they cannot well stand upright ; and their 
hands have been so dirtied, feeling their way 
to Plutus, it seems to them a foolish task to 
try to whiten and purify them. This, hov/- 
ever, they can do. They can, somehow, 
blind the world : yes, they can put on very 
white gloves. 

Take from Tom Blast the spot of felony, — 
and as he staggers onward in darkness and 
uncertainty, almost crushed with his weight 
of wealth — knowing not where to find re- 
pose — he is no other than your monstrously 
rich man, who has exchanged his heart at 
the Mint for coined pieces. 

Fatigued, perplexed with rising fears, the 
robber goes on his unknown way. He strikes 
wide from the village — goes down lanes — 
crosses fields^ And then he pauses; and 
casting his load upon the earth, he sits upon 
it, takes off his hat, and wipes the streaming 
sweat from his brow, a myriad of unthought 
of stars looking' down upon his felon head. 

Yes ; he has taken the good resolution. 
He will henceforth be an honest, respectable 
man. Let fate be only so kind as to assure 
him his present spoil, and he will wash his 
hands of all such work for the rest of his 
days. He will — he thinks — leave London. 
Yes ; he will discipline his soul to forego the 
sweet allurements, the magic wiles of that 
city of Comus. He will go into the country, 


and be very good to the poor. He will 
change his name. "With such change, he 
cannot but slough much of the bad reputation 
that the prejudice of society has fixed upon 
him. He will become a country gentleman. 
He will give away a bullock and blankets at 
Christmas. He will go regularly to church. 
Yes ; he will show that he can be truly re- 
ligious ; for he will have a pew as fine, if not 
finer, than any pew he had peeped into yes- 
terday. If fate, for this once — this last time 
— would only be kind to him ! This virtuous 
determination so befooled the felon, that he 
felt his heart opened ; felt all his nature 
softened to receive the best and kindliest im- 
pressions. Though, in his various crooked 
ways, Tom Blast had gulled many, many 
men, yet had he never so completely duped 
any man, as at that moment, Tom duped 
Tom. He felt himself mightily comforted. 
He looked around him — at the hedges — the 
trees ; as though carefully noting their par- 
ticular whereabout. He rose blithely, with 
some new resolution. With renewed strength, 
he swung the box upon his shoulder, and in 
a few minutes he had hidden it. He would 
come back at a proper season — and with 
the proper means — to make surer of it. 

Return we to Tangle’s chamber. Oh, in- 
nocent sleep ! There was the parliamentary 
agent — the man with the golden key to open 
the door of St. Stephen’s to young St. James 
— there was he, still in port-wine slumbers 
— still sunk in the claret sea ! Beautiful 
was the morning ! The nimble air frolicked 
in at the opened window — for the mercurial 
Jingo had not closed it when he departed with 
Tangle’s treasures. The glorious sun rose 
blushing at the ways of slothful man. The 
sparrows, tenants of the eaves, flew from dis- 
tant fields, many a one proving, by the early 
worm that writhed about its bill, the truthful- 
ness of proverb lore. And still the attorney 
slept } Sleep on, poor innocence ! Thou 
knowest not the gashes cut in thy pocket; 
thou knowest not how that is bleeding mortal 
drops of coined blood ; for how much seeming 
gold is there, that, looked upon aright, is 
aught other metal ? Sleep on. 

And Tangle sleeps and dreams. A deli- 
cious vision creases and wrinkles his yellow 
face like folds in parchment. Yes ; Tangle 
dreams. And we know the particular dream, 
and — sweet is the privilege ! — we may and 
will tell it. Somnus, father of dreams — what 
a progeny has he to answer for! — did not 
kindly send to the lawyer a visionary courier 
to apprise him of his loss ; and so to break 
the affliction to his sleep that, waking, he 
might perhaps the better endure it. Oh, no ! 
there would have been no sport in that. Con- 
trast is the soul of whim ; and Somnus was 
inclined to a joke with the razor-sharp at- 
torney. 


120 


THE HISTORY OF 


Whereupon, Tangle dreamt that he was 
on his death-bed — and nevertheless, bed to 
him had never been so delicious. He knew 
his hour was come : a smiling angel — all 
effulgence- — on either side — had told him so. 
And Tangle, calling up a decent look of re- 
gret at his wife and children, standing about 
them, told them to be comforted, as he was 
going immediately to heaven. This he knew ; 
and it showed their ignorance to look any 
doubt of the matter. That chest of gold — 
the gold once taken to pay the electors of 
Liquorish—was, after the manner of dreams, 
somehow his own property. And therefore, 
he ordered the chest to be placed on the foot 
of his bed, and opened. The lid was raised ; 
and oh, what a glory ! It was filled to the edge 
with bright, bright guineas, all bearing the 
benevolent face — a wonderful likeness, in 
fact, as every face on gold is, a speaking 
likeness, for it talks every tongue — of George 
the Third ! When Tangle saw them, he 
smiled a smile — ay, could we have followed 
it — to the very roots of his heart. “ I am 
going to heaven,” said he ; “I have toiled 
all my life for that goodly end ; I have scrap- 
ed and scraped those blessed things together, 
knowing that if I had enough of them to bear 
my weight, they would carry me straight to 
Paradise. No, my dear wife, my darling 
children, think not my brain is wandering; 
think me not light-headed; for at this solemn 
time, this awful moment, I only hope to con- 
summate the great object of my life. I have 
made money in this world, that, by its means, 

I might make sure of heaven in the next. 
And they” — and Tangle again pointed to the 
guineas — “ those bright celestials will carry 
me there !” And now comes the wonderful 
part of the dream. When Tangle had ceas- 
ed speaking, every guinea rose, as upon tiny 
wings, from the box ; and, like a swarm of 
bees, filled the death-chamber with a hum- 
ming sound. And then gradually every 
King George the Third face upon the guinea 
grew and rounded into a cherub head of glit- 
tering gold, the wings extending and expand- 
ing. And who shall count the number of the 
cherubim glorifying the chamber with their 
eflulgence, and making it resound with their 
tremendous music ! A short time, and then 
Tangle dreamt that the cherubim were bear- 
ing him from his bed — all lifting, all support- 
ing him, all tending him in his upward Might ; 
And then again he smiled at his worldly wis- 
dom, for he felt that every guinea he had 
niade — no matter how, upon earth — was be- 
come an angel, helping him to heaven. And 
still in his dream — smiling and smiling, he 
went up — up — up ! 

Now, if any cavilling reader disputes the 
authenticity of this dream — if, pushing it 
aside, he calls it extravagant and ridiculous, 
we are, without further preparation, ready to 


prove it a very reasonable and likely dream ' 
a dream that is no other than a visionary em- 
bodiment of the waking thoughts of many a 
man, who hoards and hoards, as though every 
bit of gold was, as the lawyers have it, seizin 
of Paradise. When (and it does sometimes 
happen) a high dignitary of the Church dies 
with a coffer of some hundred and forty thou- 
sand pounds, who shall say that the good 
man has not hoarded them, in tlie belief that 
every pound will serve him as an angel to 
help him to heaven ? He knows he cannot 
take them to bliss f but, with a wisdom un- 
known to much of the ignorant laity, he evi- 
dently believes that they can carry him there. 
Hence even Church avarice, properly con- 
sidered, may be excellent religion — hence a 
crawling, caterpillar miser may only crawl to 
soar the higher — a triumphant Psyche ! 

And still Tangle, in his dream, was as- 
cending to the stars. Was ever man brought 
back to this earth with so terrible a shock ? 
Compared with it, a drop from a balloon upon 
Stonehenge would be a few feet fall upon a 
feather-bed. 

“ Hallo ! Bless me ! My good friend ! 
Well, you have a constitution ! Sleep with 
the window open !” 

Such were the exclamations of Mr. Folder, 
up and arrayed for an early walk. Though 
by no means unwell from the last night — 
certainly not, for he was never soberer in his 
life — he thought he would take a ramble in 
the fields just to dissipate a little dulness, a 
slight heaviness he felt ; and being of a com- 
panionable nature, he thought he would hold 
out to Mr. Tangle the advantage of accom- 
panying him. Whereupon, he tried the at- 
torney’s door, and, finding it unlocked, with 
the pleasant freedom* of a friend, he entered 
the chamber. The opened window struck 
him with vast astonishment. The election 
was not over, and Mr. Tangle might catch 
his death. Again he gave voice to his anxie- 
ty. “ My dear sir, — Mr. Tangle — the win- 
dow” — 

“ Ten thousand cherubs,” said Tangle, 
still in the clouds, — “ ten thousand, and not 
one less. I knew I had ten thousand ; and 
all good: not a pocket-piece among ’em. 
Cherubs !” 

“Bless my soul!” said Folder, “ he’s in 
some sweet dream ; and with the window 
open. Well, if I could dream at all under 
such circumstances,! should certainly dream 
I was in a saw-mill with a saw going through 
every joint of my body. And, what’s more, 

I should wake and find it all true. Mr . Tan- 
gle I 

With other exclamations — with still more 
strenuous pulling— Mr. Folder saw that he 
was about to achieve success. There were 
undeniable symptoms of Mr. Tangle’s gradual 
return to a consciousness of tlie £ s. d. of 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


121 


this world. Gradually, cherub by cherub 
was letting him down easily to this muddy 
earth. The attorney stretched out his legs 
like a spider — flung up his arms — and with 
a tremendous yawn opened his mouth so 
wide, that Mr Folder — but he was not a man 
of high courage — might have seen that at- 
torney’s very bowels. Tangle unclosed his 
stithy-opening eyelids. It was plain there 
was a mist — possibly a cloud, as from burnt 
claret — passing before Iris orbs : for it was 
some moments before the face of Mr. Folder 
loomed through the vapor. At length. Tan- 
gle — with every vein in his head beating 
away as though it would not beat in such 
fashion much longer ; no, it would rather 
burst — at length Tangle, resolving to be most 
courageously jolly, laughed and cried out — 
“ Well, what’s the matter ?” 

“Why, my dear friend,” said Folder, “ as 
to-day is a busy day, 1 thought we could not 
be too fresh for work : and so, as we were a 
little late, I may say, too, a little wild last 
night — ” 

Pooh, pooh ; not a bit. I never felt bet- 
ter ; never, in all my life. I always know 
when I’m safe, and drink accordingly. 
Never was yet deceived, sir ; never. There’s 
no port in the world I’d trust, like the port 
you get from the gentlemen of the cloth : 
they’re men above deceit, sir ; above deceit.” 

“ Nevertheless, I do think a walk in the 
fields — ^just a turn before breakfast — ” 

“ No,” said Tangle, turning upon his side, 
evidently set upon another nap ; “ no ; I like 
buttercups and daisies, and all that sort of 
thing — breath of cows, and so forth — but not 
upon an empty stomach.” 

“Well to be sure,” said Folder, “you 
economize. You get your air and sleep 
together.” 

« What do you mean ?” grunted Tangle. 

“ Why you sleep with your window open, 
don’t you ?” asked Folder. , 

“ Never,” replied Tangle. 

“ No : then who has opened it for you ?” 

Mr. Tangle raised himself in his bed. We 
will not put down tlie oath which, to the as- 
tonisliment of Folder, he thundered forth, 
vvhen he saw his casement open to the winds. 
Suddenly he leapt from the bed ; and as sud- 
denly Mr. Folder quitted the chamber. 

“ Robbery I Murder I” cried Tangle, with 
amazing lungs. 

Now, we have never known this confusion 
of terms in any way accounted for. True 
it is, Mr. Tangle saw, as he believed, the 
clearest evidence of robbery ; but there was 
no drop, no speck of blood, to afford the slight- 
est hint of homicide. Wherefore, then, 
should he, falling into a common error of 
humanity, couple murder with theft ? Why 
is it, we ask, that infirm man, suddenly awa- 
kened to a loss of pelf, almost always con- 
9 


nects with the misfortune, the loss of life ? 
Are purse-strings and heart-strings so inevi- 
tably interwoven ? We merely let fall this 
subject for the elucidation of the metaphysi- 
cian ; and so pursue our story. 

“ Robbery ! Murder !” yelled Tangle, dan- 
cing in his shirt about thQ room like a fran-' 
tic Indian. Mr. Folder, at the door, took up 
the cry, and in a few minutes landlord and 
landlady, chambermaid, water, and boots, 
with half-a-dozen tenants of the Olive 
Branch, were at Tangle’s door. “ A minute 
— only a minute,” cried Tangle, as they 
were about to enter — “ Not dressed yet — the 
murderous thieves — nearly naked— the scoun 
drel malefactors — guineas, guineas — gone — 
gone — where’s my stockings?” Very dis- 
tressing to a soul of sympathy was the con- 
dition of Mr. Tangle. As he hunted about 
the floor for his scattered articles of dress, 
his face — he could not help it — was turned 
towards the empty closet, as though in his 
despair he thought some good fairy might 
replace the treasure there, even while he 
looked. Thus, looking one way, and seeking 
his raiment in divers others, he brought his 
head two or three times in roughest compan- 
ionship with the bed-post. At length, very 
sternly rebuked by one of these monitors, he 
made a desperate effort at tranquillity. He 
ceased to look towards the closet. Setting 
his teeth and breathing like a walrus, he 
drew^ on his stockings. He then encased 
his lower members in their customary cover- 
ing ; and then the turned-out pockets once 
more smit his bruised soul. He dropt upon 
the bed, and sent forth one long, deep, pite- 
ous groan. “ The murderous villains ! 
Even my ’bacco-stopper !” he cried : and 
then his eyelids quivered ; bnt he repressed 
the weakness, and did not weep. “ Some- 
body shall swing for this — somebody !” he 
said; and this sweet, sustaining thought 
seemed for a time miglitily to comfort him. 
And thus, the attorney continued to dress 
himself, his hand trembling about every but- 
ton-hole ; whilst the crowd at liis chamber- 
door exchanged sundry speculations as to 
the mode and extent of the robbery, the land- 
lord loudly exclaiming that nothing of the 
sort liad ever been known in his house : a 
statement emphatically confirmed by his du- 
tiful wife. 

“ And now,” cried Tangle, tying the 
while his neckcloth like a hay-wisp; “and 
now, ladies and gentlemen, you may come 
in.” Instantly the chamber was thronged. 
“ Ifook here — look here,” he said, waving 
his hand towards the empty closet as a tre- 
mendous show — “ this is a pretty sight, I 
think, for a respectable house 1” 

“ What’s the matter, sir ?” said the land- 
lord. “ Have you lost anything ?” 

“ Lost anything !” exclaimed Tangle , 


122 


THE HISTORY OF 


“ only a box of gold ! Yes — I — I won’t say 
how many guineas.” 

There was something touching, awful, in 
this intelligence ; for every one of the hear- 
ers, in some way or the other, called upon 
Heaven to bless him or her, as the case 
might be ; everybody also declaring that, he 
or she had never heard of such a thing. 

“ But, sir,” said the landlord, very provo- 
kingly, “are you sure there’s no mistake — 
was it there when you went to bed ?” 

To this impertinent, insulting, unfeeling 
question, ‘Tangle made no verbal answer. 
He merely looked daggerwise in the face of 
the querist, and laughed scornfully, hysteri- 
cally. He might as well have laughed in 
the dead face of a dead-wall, for the landlord 
continued : 

“ Because you know, sir, and this gentle- 
man” — he meant Folder — “ and Molly, 
chambermaid, and boots, and my wife, all 
know that yon was a little the worse or the 
better for liquor, as you may think, when 
you came home from Lazarus Hall. You 
must feel that, sir : Pm sure you do feel it.” 
* “ I tell you what, landlord,” said Tangle. 
“ I tell you what, sir ; this insolence shall 
not serve your turn — not at all. You shall 
not rob me of my reputation to cover the rob- 
bery of my money.” 

“ J rob you! I rob you I” cried the land- 
lord, advancing towards Tangle, and follow- 
ed by his wife, the maid, and boots, all taking 
part in the music “ He rob you !” “ Mas- 

ter rob you !” 

“ Look there ! I take you all to witness,” 
cried Tangle, running to the bed, plucking 
away the pillows, and showing a key — “ the 
key of the closet ; of that very closet. Now, 
had I forgotten myself for a moment as a 
gentleman or a man of business, is it likely 
that I should have been so particular with 
that key '?” 

“ They must have come in at the winder,” 
said the boots, gaping at the open casement. 

“ Hallo I my fine fellow,” cried the too 
subtle Tangle ; “ you seem to know some- 
thing about it ?” 

•“ Acause,” answered the unshaken boots, 
“ acause this gentleman said he found the 
winder open.” 

The landlord approached the closet, looked 
about it as though possibly the box might 
still be in some corner ; then scratched his 
head ; and then with his thumb and finger 
felt the bolt of the lock, and then sagaciously 
observed ; “ he was an old hand as did this. 
All the marks on it, sir ; all the marks on it.” 

“ A great consolation,” answered Tangle, 
with a ghastly grin. “ Well, Mr. Landlord, 
seeing yourself in this condition — what do 
you propose?” And the looks of the. land- 
lord answered — Nothing. 

“ You see, sir,” at length the Olive Branch 


made answer, “ you see, sir, this is election 
time. Now there isn’t a honester place in 
the world — though I was born in it, I must 
say it, — than Liquorish. But at election 
time, all sorts of villains come about us, as 
you must know. I don’t see what you can 

do Yes ; you can send the bellman 

round with a reward for the thief — and” — 

“ Pooh, pooh, foolish man !” cried Folder, 
who then drew Tangle aside. “ Don’t you 
see, my dear sir, how such a step would 
damage us ? Don’t you see how it would 
serve the other party ? Imagine ! ‘ Lost, a 

box' of guineas from the Olive Branch !’ 
Consider; what squibs they’d fire at us. 
They’d swear, — that is, they would insinu- 
ate, — that we had brought down the gold to 
bribe the electors.” 

“ That never struck me,” answered Tan- 
gle ; “ ’tis more than likely. Heaven help 
us ! What’s to be done ? Five-and-thirty 
years have I been in practice ; and never — 
never before such a blow. Stript, sir — 
stript,” he said in a tone of maudlin sorrow — 
“ stript even my ’bacco-stopper.” 

At this moment. Doctor Gilead’s carriage 
drove up to the door, and the footman entered 
the Olive Branch, bearing a letter for Mr. 
Folder. This arrival, coupled with the si- 
lence of Tangle, caused the landlord, land- 
lady, boots, and chambermaid to quit the 
room ; and they were speedily followed by 
others, soine of whom said, “ What a pity !” 
Some, “ How very odd 1” and some, “ It 
was very mysterious ; but doubtless time 
would sWv.” 

“ My dear friend,” said Folder, having 
read the missive, “ it is a summons from his 
Lordship, who observes that we may as well 
blend breakfast with business. We’ve no 
time to lose.” 

Tangle looked blankly at the floor — 
blankly at the ceiling. He then wailingly 
observed, “That such a calamity should hap- 
pen to me ! To me, abdve all other men in 
the world ! How can I ever face his lord- 
ship !” 

“ My good friend, it’s not so bad. The 
loss, heavy as it is,” said Folder, with a 
smile, “ can’t be ruin.” 

“ You’re a kind comforter, Mr. Folder ; in- 
deed you are,” said Tangle, trying hard at a 
smile on his own account. 

“ For you’re a rich man, Mr. Tangle ; a 
very rich man and can make up the loss 
without — ” 

“ I make up the loss, Mr. Folder ! /make 
— pardon me, my dear sir, you really speak 
in total ignorance of such matters. No, the 
gold being his lordship’s use— if an accident 
has unfortunately happened to it — why, of 
course — ” 

“Well,” replied Folder, catching the drift 
of Tangle, “that you can settle with his 


I 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


123 


lordship himself. In the mean time, we had 
better prepare for our visit. I shan’t be five 
minutes — but you — you need a little prepa- 
ration. Don’t you shave this morning ?” 

“ Not for two millions would I attempt it, 
Mr. Folder. In my state of mind, not for 
millions. I couldn’t do it, sir — I couldn’t so 
provoke fate. I tell you what I’ll do — I’ll 
walk on : in my present condition. I’d rather 
walk. I shall find a barber in the village, 
and — I shall be at the hall as soon as you — 
tell his lordship, quite as soon as you.” 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

The borough of Liquorish possessed two 
barbers — only two. Happily, however, the 
number was sufficient to admit of deadly ri- 
valry ; for let this truth never be forgotten — 
two can hate as well as twenty. Now, the 
hatred of Rasp and Flay welled up from their 
love of the same thing, the British Constitu- 
tion. Mr. Rasp loved that elastic object with 
a tender and reverential love ; he always ap- 
proached its consideration with a fluttering 
soul — a sweet concern. The British Consti- 
tution was the apple of his eye — the core of 
his heart. He loved it beyond any other 
thing appertaining to this loveable earth. 
His wife — meek, injured woman! — has often 
considered herself slighted and despised by 
the libertine preference. “ A married man 
with a family,” Mrs. Rasp would some- 
times patiently observe, and sometimes not, 
“ shouldn’t trouble his head with such non- 
sense.” Occasionally, too, she would very 
much like to know what the Constitution, as 
they called it, had ever done for the poor ? 
And when Rasp — in moments of ale — has 
expressed himself perfectly willing, nay, 
rather anxious, to lose his head for the Con- 
stitution, his wife has only placidly remark- 
ed, “ that it was more than he’d ever think 
of doing for her.” 

Now, Flay loved tlie Constitution after a 
different fashion. It was a pretty object — 
very pretty, indeed ; very desirable, very es- 
sential for the happiness, or at least for the 
enjoyment of man. Flay loved the Consti- 
tution with a sort of oriental love ; it was the 
passion of the Great Turk for some fair stag- 
eyed slave ; the affection of one who is the 
master, the owner, of the creature of his de- 
hghts — the trading possessor of the lovely 
goods ; and therefore, when it shall so please 
him, at perfect freedom to sell or truck, or 
bow-string, or put in a sack, or in any other 
way to turn the penny with, or dispose of 
the idol of his adoration. Yes : Flay thought 
the Constitution, like the flesh-and-blood 
nearl of a harem, might now be devouringly 
lOved, and now advantageously bartered. 


Where the man, living in the twilight ob- 
scurity of Liquorish, learned such principles, 
we know not. Certain it is, they were very 
far beyond his social condition. 

We have now to task the indulgence of 
the reader to endeavour to remember that 
Mr. Tangle, dizzy and tremulous, quitted the 
Olive Branch, summoned |;o Lazarus Hall 
by his lordship. The wine still sang in his 
ears, and the evil spirits that men swallow 
as angels in their cups over-night, beat in 
Tangle’s beating heart, and twitched his 
nerves, and seemed to turn his eyes into 
burning-glasses, as he found himself in the 
street. And then came the loss of the gold 
upon his brain — came with a crash, stupify- 
ing, stunning, as though the metal itself had 
fallen upon that divine web-work of nerves — 
wherein Tangle’s soul, spider-like, lurked 
for human flies — and smitten him out of life. 
And then his stomach seemed to hold within 
it one large nausea ; and he looked at the 
rosy children about him — the red-faced, 
laughing neighbors, and wondered what they 
were made of. 

Nevertheless one thought like a star shone 
brightly through this fog of soul, for the said > 
soul was much obscured by the wine-mists 
from the stomach — the thought of the barber. 
Tangle must be shaved. It had been one of 
the principles of his existence — one of the 
bundle of determinations with which he had 
set out on the pilgrimage of life — or ratlier, 
this principle he had taken up at the twenty 
mile stage — to suffer no man to take him by 
tfje nose save himself. In the vanity of his 
philosophy, he had believed that no blow of 
fortune could have rendered his hand un- 
steady at the morning razor ; and now, with 
the loss of the gold upon him, he .shuddered 
at the thought of the sacrificial steel. In the 
disorder of his soul and the sickness of his 
stomach, he saw himself shaving ; and saw 
a very numerous family of imps laughing 
and winking in the glass — and pointing their 
fingers at his throat — and tlien grinning hard 
again— and nodding, and smacking their 
forked tongues, as revelling in the hope of a 
delicious tragedy. x\nd Tangle — for we 
choose to give the wdiole truth — Tangle did 
for a moment sympathise with those murder- 
hinting demons. It was weak — it was wick- 
ed ; but in another moment, the idea was 
sternly banished. For Tangle remembered 
that his life was insured; and how very 
dreadful it would be, should he leave the 
world in a way to forfeit the policy ! With 
these thoughts, Mr. Tangle entered the shop 
of Rasp. He entered and shrunk back. 

“ Come in, sir,” cried the hospitable barber. 

“ Here, Tim, finish this gentleman.” Saying 
this. Rasp instantly quitted the beard he wa;i 
about to reap, for the chin of the new-comer. 
Tangle looked about him, and felt himself a 


124 


THE HISTORY OP 


little wounded, somewhat disgTaced by the 
meanness, the rustic poverty of the shop. He 
looked too at the man lathered to the eyes — 
the man consigned to Tim, Rasp’s little boy, 
who qiiicKly mounted a stool, that he might 
the better possess himself of the nose of the 
customer. Now, albeit the features of the 
man were very thickly masked by soap-suds, 
it was the instant conviction of Tangle that 
he saw coarse, dirty lineaments beneath ; 
and thereupon his pride started at the thought 
of losing his beard in such company. Had 
Tangle felt himself the prosperous man of 
yesterday, certainly ho would as soon have 
offered his neck to the axe, as his chin to 
the self-same brush that had lathered the 
beard of that very vulgar man ; but adver- 
sity had chastised pride, and after a natural 
twinge or two, Tangle sank resignedly on 
the wooden chair, and with an all but smoth- 
ered sigh, gave himself up to the barber. 
Certainly, he had never been shaved in such 
company ; but then — the thought was a gteat 
support to his independent spirit — nobody 
would know it. 

(Nobody would know it ! How much in- 
sult, injury — how many hard words, tierce 
threats — nay, how many tweakings of the 
nose might be borne by some forgiving souls, 
if — nobody would know it ! What a balm, 
a salve, a plaster to the private hurt of a sort 
of hero may the hero tind in the delicious 
truth that — nobody knows it! The nose 
does not burn, for nobody saw it pulled ! It 
is the eye of the world looking on, that, like 
the concentrated rays of the sun, scorches 
it ; blisters it ; lights up such a fire within 
it, that nothing poorer than human blood can 
quench it ! And all because everybody 
knows it!) 

Tangle was reconciled to his humiliation 
— for it was nothing less to be handled in 
such a shop and by such a barber — by the be- 
lief that the world would remain in ignorance 
of the uncomfortable fact. And much, indeed, 
at the moment, did Tangle owe to igno- 
rance. He knew that he was a crushed, 
despoiled, degraded being ; he knew that with 
the box of gold he had lost his sense of self- 
respect. Compared to the Tangle of yes- 
terday, he was no better than a Hottentot ; 
for he had lost his better part. This he 
knew : but, ignorant sufferer, he did not 
know that the man seated in lathered com- 
panionship beside him was the midnight bur- 
glar, the robber of his more than peace, the 
felonious Tom Blast. Now, Mr. Blast him- 
self immediately recognised the parliament- 
ary agent ; but feeling that he had the ad- 
vantage of having looked upon him when 
Tangle could not return the attention, the 
robber gazed very composedly through his 
lather : nay more, he was. so tickled by the 


sudden advent of Tangle that, in the gaiety 
of his soul, he chuckled. 

“ If you please, sir, if you laugh,” said 
little Tim, “ I must cut you.” 

“ The child has a hand as light as a but- 
terfly” — said the barber father to Blast — • 
“ but the boy’s right ; he must cut you if 
you laugh. Steady, Tim.” 

“ All right,” cried Blast, from his sono- 
rous chest ; and he stiffened the cords of his 
visage. 

“ Very odd, sir,” said Rasp, vigorously 
lathering Tangle, as though he was white- 
washing a dead wall— very odd, sir ; when 
a man^ being shaved, whtit a little will 
make him laugh.— -Never heard it properly 
accounted for, sir, did you ?” 

Tangle spoke not ; but shivered out a 
long sigh, evidently provocative to the mirth- 
ful Blast, for little Tim again cried, — ^ If 
you please, sir, I must cut you.” 

‘•Don’t blame the child, sir; that’s all. 
Steady, Tim ” — said the barber, who again 
addressed himself to Tangle. “ Glad to find 
there’s no laugh in you, sir.” Tangle made 
no answer ; but again sighed as with the 
ague. 

“ There ! I know’d I should cut you !’^ 
cried Tim as Blast winced and the blood 
came Irom his check. “ I Imow’d I should 
do it.” 

The barber turned from Tangle to take a 
view of the mischief done upon Blast, grave- 
ly observing, as he eyed the blood — “ Not 
the child’s fault, sir. Never cut before in his 
life ; never.” 

“ Weil, it’s no use a stifling it,” cried 
Blast; and gently putting Tim aside, he 
flung himself .back in the chair, and roared 
a laugh, all the louder and the deeper for its 
long repression. Tangle looked round. 
Most strange, nay, most insulting was it to 
him — to him with the load of affliction weigh- 
ing on his brain — that any man should laugh 
so vehemently, so very brutally. On his 
way to the barber’s Tangle had'felt a little 
hurt tliat even the birds should chirp and 
twitter; that the flowers in the gardens 
should look so happy in their brightness ; the 
very fineness of the day seemed unkind to 
him : nevertheless he tried to bear it like a 
man. But to have his solemn thoughts, deep 
as they were'in a lost money-chest^ outraged 
by the vulgar merriment of a very vulgar 
man, — it was cruel, barbarous; surely he 
had done nothing to deserve it. 

“It’s very odd,” said Tangle, speaking 
both angrily and sorrowfully, “ very odd that 
a gentleman can’t be quietly shaved without 
people”-— 

“Ax your pardon,” said Blast. “Hope 
the barber’s not nicked you ; but I couldn’t 
help it. Y ou know what a little will make a 


1 


ST. GILES Al 

man langh sometimes. All right now I’ve 
got rid of it. Go on little shaver. I’ll keep 
a cheek as stiff as a mile-stone.” And Mr. 
Blast resolved to control his merriment, 
sorely tempted as it was by the proximity of 
the melancholy man he had plundered. It 
was a most capital joke, a most provoking 
piece of fun, yet would the thief be serious. 
For some seconds not a sound was heard, 
save the mowing of beards. 

‘‘ Well, Measter Rasp, here be a rumpas ! 
here be a blow for the Blues ! here be duck 
for the Yellows! Ho! ho! ho! There 
never was sick a mess. I han’t laughed so 
much since they put the tinker in the stocks ! 
Sich a glory !” This announcement, bro- 
kenly uttered through roars of laughter, was 
delivered by Skittle, the cobbler of Liquorish, 

/ wlio, exploding with the intelligence, burst 
into the shop. 

“ What’s the matter ?” asked the barber, 
so alive to the luck of the Yellows, of which 
party he felt himself a very shining particle, 
that he paused in his shaving ; holding twixt 
linger and thumb the nose of Tangle. 
‘‘ Luck for our side. Bob ! What is it ?” 

“ Why you must know that the Blues — 
jest like ’em — brought down a box of golden 
guineas. You know, in course, what for?” 
observed the cobbler, severely winking one 
eye. 

“ I should think I did,” answered Rasp, 
and he stropped his razor on his hand very 
impatiently. “That’s the way they serve 
the Constitution. Tliat’s how they’d sell 
and buy the British Lion, for all the world 
like veal. Well, a box of guineas ! I should 
like to catch ’em offering me any, that’s all,” 
cried Rasp : and with a grin of indignation 
he again stropped his blade. 

“ My good man,” said Tangle, very meek- 
ly, for he was overcome, broken-hearted by 
the mirth of the cobbler, — “ my good man, 
will you proceed and finish me ?” 

“ Wouldn’t trust myself, sir, till I’ve heard 
all about the Blues. You don’t know my 
feelings,” said Rasp. “ I should slice you, 
sure as pork. Go on Bob. Ha ! ha ! Down 
with the Blues !” And still Tangle sat half- 
shaven and wholly miserable, listening to 
the blithe story of the cobbler, whose notes of 
exultation struck dagger-wise into the fiesh 
of the outraged agent. Was ever man so 
tried ? He could not bounce from his chair, 
and with half his beard upon him sally forth 
into the street. No ; he was doomed by 
decency to sit and hear the history of his 
wretchedness and the brutal mirth it occa- 
sioned. The cobbler and barber roared with 
laughter; little Tim smirked and giggled, 
and Tom Blast, with his eyes leering to- 
wards the agonised Tangle, showed that the 
sweetest and deepest satisfaction filled the 


D ST. JAMES. ' 125 

bosom of the thief. His felon soul hugged 
itself in vast enjoyment of the fun ! 

“ Well, you must know that the Olive 
Branch was broke open laid night,” said the 
cobbler, “ and the box of guineas brought 
to the borough — we know what for” — and 
Skittle put his forefinger to his nose. 

“ I should rather think we did,” responded 
Rasp, returning the digital signal. “ Rather.” 

“ The box of guineas carried off ; all took 
wing like young goldfinches. The landlord 
says, and his wife says, she’s sure of it, too, 
that it’s the devil has done it.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha!”' shouted Tom ’ Blast, — 
mightily enjoying the false accusation, — 
“ Poor devil !” 

“I don’t wonder at your laughing,” said 
the barber, gravely. “ It wasn’t no devil ; 
the devil’s a better judge than to carry away 
gold of that sort ; it would do his worl^all 
the better left behind. And is there no sus- 
picion of who’s stole it?” Here Blast and 
Tangle listened attentively, but assuredly 
with a different curiosity. 

“ Why, that’s the worst of it,” answered 
the cobbler ; “ they’ve tried hard to suspect 
everybody, but somehow they can make no 
hand on it.” 

Hereupon the barber wrinkled his brow, 
and thoughtfully and tenderly with his 
fingers twiddled at the end of his nose, as 
though he had the secret there, if it could 
only be coaxed out. “ I tell you what it is ; 
’tisn’t seldom I’m wrong — I know the thief.” 

“ You ?” exclaimed Tangle ; and “ You ?” 
was at the lip of Blast ; but that cautious 
man smothered the impatient word with a 
sort of grunt that passed for nothing. 

“ He’ll never be found out ; oh no ; he’s 
too cunning for that,” said the barber ; “ but 
I shouldn’t wonder if the fellow that had the 
keeping of the money isn’t him that stole it.” 

“ Was there ever such an infamous ?” — 
exclaimed Tangle, when he was suddenly 
stopped by the peremptory coolness of the 
barber ; who, tapping him on the shoulder, 
observed — “ Bless you ! it’s a thing done 
every day. Nothing more likely.” 

“ Nothing,” said Blast in his deepest bass, 
and his eye twinkled enjoyingly. 

«“ Am I to stay here haif-sliaved all day ?” 
cried the goaded Tangle. “ Fellow, finish 
me !” 

“ Tell you, couldn’t trust myself till we 
hear* the rights of the guineas,” said the 
patriotic barber. “They was brought here 
to violate the Constitution, and whomsoever’s 
got ’em. I’m glad they’re gone. Though 
mind, I’d take a bet that him that’s lost ’em, 
knows'best where they’re to belound.” 

“ Ha ! Master Barber,” cried Blast in a, 
loud tone of compliment, “ it’s plain you 
know life !” 


126 


THE HISTORY OF 


“ Why’ I’ve seen a few ’lections at 
Liquorish’” said Rasp, “ and this I will say 
— the Blues, if they know’d him, would rob 
their'own father. I might, in my time, have 
had my hat full of guineas” — 

“ I shouldn’t brag of that, if I was you, 
Mr. Rasp” — said the barber’s wife suddenly 
descending to a cupboard iri the shop, for 
some domestic purposes — “ I shouldn’t brag 
of that, and you to keep me and your child- 
ren as you do.” 

“ Women have no love of country,” said 
the barber in a soft voice as his wife depart- 
ed. 

“ Don’t understand a bit on it,” said the 
cobbler. “ There’s my old Margery Daw at 
home — she says that women have enough to 
do to love their husbands.” 

“ And that’s hard work sometimes,” said 
the barber. I’m afeard it is.” 

“Am I to be shaved to day ?” roared Tan- 
gle, the lather dried to a plaster on his face. 

“I tell you what it is, sir,” said the barber, 

“ You’re half shaved as clean as any baby ; 
now shaving’s a penny ; well, if you can’t 
wait, you’re welcome to the ha’porth you’ve 
had for nothing. A ha’penny sir,” and the 
barber looked loftily about him, “ a ha’penny 
won’t ruin me.” 

“ I’m in no ’urry,” observed the accommo- 
dating Blast. Your little boy can finish the 
gentleman — I’ll wait.” 

“ Thank you — very kind — come along, 
boy,” cried Tangle, and Tim moved his 
stool beside the lawyer. “ Now you’ll be 
very particular ; and mind, don’t cut.” 

“ Then don’t shake, sir, if you please,” 
said Tim ; for Tangle agitated by what he 
had heard, by the delay he had been com- 
pelled to suffer, as the boy touched him, 
trembled like a jelly. And as he trembled, 
the barber leered suspiciously, directing the 
cobbler’s looks to the shaking gentleman ; 
and Tom Blast very soon made one of the party 
of inspection, communicating by most elo- 
quent glances, the strongest doubts and sus- 
picions of the individual then impatiently un- 
dergoing the discipline of the razor. 

“ If the thief’s caught, I suppose he’ll be 
hanged,” said the cobbler, staring at Tangle. 

“ Heaven is merciful ! I hope so — heartily 
hope so,” exclaimed Tangle vivaciously, 
earnestly; at the same time jumping up, his 
shaving completed. “ I hope so ; I’d go .fifty 
miles to see it — fifty miles. Giv^me change.” 
Saying this, and tying his neckcloth. Tan- 
gle laid down sixpence. “ Make haste.” 

Very leisurely, and as with a soul by no 
means to be dazzled by sixpences, the barber 
took up the tester. He then approached the 
bottom of the staircase ascended by his help- 
mate, and with measured syllables inquired, 

“ Eliza Jane, love, have you change for six- 
pence ?” 


And this gentle query was answered by 
another, running thus. “Have I change for 
the Bank of .England ?” 

“It never happened so before, sir,” said 
Rasp, feeling the sixpence, “ but we havn’t 
a copper half-penny in the house. The child, 
sir, shall run out for change. Won’t be ten 
minutes; nothing beats him at an errand.” 

Tangle looked savagely about him. He 
could not wait ; he would not be thought to 
give the sixpence. He therefore observed, 
very emphatically, “ Very well, barber ; I’ll 
call again,” and hurried away. 

“ Don’t you know him ?” cried the cobbler, 
“ he’s one of the Blues.” 

“ Well, if I didn’t think he was one of 
them thick-skinned lot while I was sha*ving 
him,” said Rasp ; who then turned t© Blast. 
“ He knows something of them guineas, eh, 
sir. I’m bound for it ? ” 

“ ’Xactly,” answered Blast. “ They’re a 
pretty set — them Blues. I’m a Yellow.” 

“I’d know that, sir” — observed the bar- 
ber, as he finished the undone work of Tim 
— “ I’d know that, sir, by the tenderness of 
your face. Now for that old Blue, a man 
might as well shave a brass knocker. I can 
tell a man’s principles by his skin, I can.” 

“ Not a doubt on it,” averred Mr. Blast 
very sonorously; who then rose from his 
chair, and proceeded into a corner to consult 
a fragment of glass, nailed to the wall. — 
Whilst thus courageously surveying his face, 
his back turned to the door, another custo- 
mer entered the shop, and without a syllable, 
seating himself, awaited the weapon of Rasp. 

“ Heard of the robbery, sir ? ” asked the 
barber, “ Ha ! ha ! fia ! Rare work, sir. — 
What I call fun.” 

“ What robbery ?” cried the stranger, and 
immediately Blast turned at the sound, and 
knew that it was St, Giles who spoke. Si- 
lently, the burglar grinned huge satisfaction. 

“ Thousands of guineas stole last night, 
nothing less. I wish you and I had ’em, sir, 
that’s all, for they came here to do Beelze- 
bub’s work, sir ; to be laid out in perjury, 
and all that ; to buy the honest souls of hon- 
est men like mackarel. Therefore,” conclu- 
ded the barber, “ I say I wish you and I had 
’em. Don’t you ?” 

Hereupon Blast quitted the mirror, an I 
the while serenely tying his neckcloth, stood 
face to face with St. Giles, chuckling and 
echoing the barber — “Don’t you wish vou 
had ’em ?” 

“ If you jump in that way,” cried Rasp to 
St. Giles, “ I won’t answer for your nose.” 

“ And you havn’t heard nothin’ on it, eh, 
sir ?” said Blast, in his light, wao-gish man- 
ner. “ Well, I should ha’ tliought you’d ha’ 
known all about it.” 

“ Why ?” stammered St. Giles, for he felt 
that he must make some answer. 


/ 


I 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


127 


“ Oh, I don’t know,” said Blast ; “ some 
people have sich a knowin’ look, that’s alL — 
They’re born wi^li it. An ’praps you wouldn’t 
like to have the guineas stole from the Blues, 
— if they are stole. But as you say, Mr. 
Barber, .( don’t believe it. Bless your heart, 
it’s my ’pinion a Blue would swear any- 
thing.” 

“ You won’t have a drop of hie this morn- 
ing ?” asked the cobbler — that sympathetic 
Yellow being mightily touched by the large- 
heartness of Blast. “Jest a drop ?” 

“ ’Tis a little early,” said the very temper- 
ate Blast, “ but I can’t refuse a Yellow 
nothin’.” And to the astonishment and re- 
lief of St. Giles, his tormentor followed the 
inviting cobbler from the shop. Uneasily sat 
St. Giles whilst Rasp performed his func- 
tion ; brief and wandering were the replies 
made by his customer to the barber, very elo- 
quent on the robbery, and especially grateful 
to Providence for the calamity. “ VVhom- 
somever has taken the guineas — always sup- 
posing they are taken — has done a service to 
the country,” said Rasp. “ For my part, and 
I don’t care who knows it, I hope they will 
live long and die happy with ’em. Pretty 
fellows they must be ! Come to sell the Con- 
stitution ; to rob us of our rights ; and then 
sing out about thieves ! What do you say, 
sir ?” cried the barber, liberating his custo- 
mer from his uneasy chair. 

“ Just so,” said St Giles. “ 1 shouldn’t 
wonder : to be sure.” 

“Why you Iook,” said Rasp, marking the 
absent air of St Giles, “ you look as if you 
was looking a hundred miles away. You 
ean’t tell us what you can see, can you ?” 

Now, St. Giles, had he been in communi- 
cative mood, might have interested the bar- 
ber, making him a partaker of the vision that 
would reveal itself to his customer. St. 
Giles plainly beheld Tom Blast with the sto- 
len guineas. Had he watched him stagger- 
ing under the pillage, he had not been better 
assured of the evil doing. Again, he mark- 
ed the thief’s face ; it wore the smug, lack- 
ered look of a fortunate scoundrel; the light 
as of the stolen guineas flickered in his eyes, 
and his lips were puckered with inaudible 
whistling. St. Giles took little heed of the 
talkative barber, but laying down the price 
of yesterday’s beard, quitted the shop. Anx- 
iously, fearfully, he looked about him from 
the door. He stood, like a lost traveller fear- 
ful of the sudden leap of some wild beast. — 
Blast was not in the street ; he now avoided 
St. Giles ; new evidence that the old ruffian 
was the robber. St. Giles hastily struck in- 
to the fields, that with less chance of inte^*- 
ruption, he might ponder on the present dif- 
ficulty. He was only known to young St. 
James as the vagabond of a prison; and, 
therefore, open to the heavier suspicion. If 


arrested, — how to account for himself? — 
Should he at once boldly seek the young lord ? 
— for, as yet he had not seen him. Or should 
he at once turn his steps towards London ? 

His heart sank, and the sickness of death 
fell upon him, as he again saw himself beset 
with inevitable peril. Was it not folly, sheer 
brute-like stupidity, in a doomed wretch like 
him, to yearn for innocent days, for honest 
bread ? Was it not gross impudence for him 
to hope it — in him, so formed and cast upon 
the world to be its wrong, its misery, and 
disgrace ? Why not go back to London, 
dash into guilt, and when the time came, die 
gallantly on the tree ? Why not clap hands 
with Blast, and become with him, a human 
animal of prey ? Such were the confused, 
the wretched thoughts that possessed St. 
Giles, as with feet of lead he crossed the 
fields. Divinely beautiful was the day I The 
heavens smiled peace and hope upon the 
earth, brimming with things of tenderness 
and beauty. The outcast paused at the wind- 
ing river.. Did his eye feed delightedly upon 
its brightness — was his ear solaced by its 
sound ? No : he looked with a wild curios- 
ity, as though he would look below — and he ■ 
heard tongues talking from the stream — 
tongues calling him to rest. 

“Ain’t lost nothing ?” cried a voice, and 
St. Giles aroused, to his delight beheld Bright 
Jem. 

“ No ; nothing,” said St. Giles. “ I was 
thinking though that J might loose some- 
thing, and be all the richer for the loss. But 
the thought’s gone, now you’re come.” 

Jem looked like a man who catches half a 
meaning, and cares not to pursue the other 
half. So he said — “ I thought, mayhap, 
when you left us in the churchyard, you’d 
have come over to the Tub. Master Cap- 
stick said he knew you wouldn’t, but I know 
he was sorry you didn’t.” 

“ I tell you what it is,” said St. Giles, “ I 
hadn’t the heart.” 

“ That’s the very reason you ought to ha’ 
come to us. Master Capstick’s got heart 
enough for half-a-dozen.” 

“God Bless him !” cried St. Giles. 

“ I’ll jine you in that, whenever you say it. 
But I can see by the look of you — why, your 
face is full on it — I can see, you’ve something 
to say. I’m afeared the world hasn’t been as 
careful of you as if you’d been an image of 
gold, eh ! Come, lad ” — and Jem laid his 
hand gently upon St. Giles’ shoulder and 
spoke tenderly as a woman — “ Come lad, let’s 
know all about it.” 

“ You shall know all — you shall,” and St. 
Giles seized Jem’s hand, and with moisten- 
ing eyes and choking'throat — it was such a 
happiness to see such looks and hear such 
words — shook it eagerly, tremblingly. 

“ There, now, good lad, take your time,” 


128 


THE HISTORY OF 


cried Jem. “ I’m going to Master Kingcup, 
the schoolmaster; not above two mile away. 
And so we’ll gossip as we trudge. Jest over 
that style, and ” — and Jem paused, with his 
looks directed towards a stunted oak some 
bow-shot from him. “I say,” — he cried, 
pointing to a boy sleeping in the arms of the 
tree — I say, that’s a London bird, perched 
there — I’m sure on it.” 

Instantly St. Giles recognized his half- 
brother, the precious Jingo. “ You’re go- 
ing to the old gentleman, you say, the school- 
master,” cried St. Giles, animated as by a 
sudden flash of thought. “ I’ve a notion — 
I’ll tell you all about it — we’ll take that boy 
with us. Hallo ! come down here !” cried 
St. Giles to the sleeper. 

“ What for ?” said Jingo, stretching him- 
self and yawning. “You’re no constable, 
and I shan’t.” 

“ He knows what a constable is, depend 
on’t,” said Jem, shaking his head. 

“ Well, I am a coming,” sdid the philoso- 
phic Jingo, observing that St. Giles was about 
to ascend — “ I’m a coming,” And in a mo- 
ment, the urchin dropt like an ape from branch 
to branch and fell to the earth. As he fell, 
a guinea rolled from his pocket. 

“ Where did you get this ?” exclaimed St. 
Giles, picking up the coin. 

Whereupon little Jingo bowed his arms, 
and in his shrillest treble answered — “ Found 
it.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The candidate for Liquorish has, it maybe 
thought, been too long neglected in our at- 
tention to his agents, and their meaner crea- 
tures. Seemingly we have been unmindful 
of his lordship, but in reality not so. We 
felt more than satisfied that we had placed 
him, like a treasure 'in a temple, at Lazarus 
Hall. For there was Doctor Gilead, the good 
genius of larder and cellar, big perspiring 
with anxiety to assuage, by the most recon- 
dite and costly means, the hunger and thirst 
of his exalted guest. Had it been possible to 
urchase a live unicorn, its haunch would 
ave smoked before young St. James; the 
sole phcenix would have been roasted in its 
spicery, and dished in its plumes ; and. Gany- 
mede might have any price of Doctor G Head 
for peculiar nectar. In the fullness of the 
Doctor’s hospitality there lurked a grief that 
no new animal — no yet unheard of tipple 
could be comp?Lssed. He must therefore — 
at last he was resigned to it — make the best 
of the good things of the earth such as they 
were ; he, by the way, possessing the very 
best for the experiment. Mrs. Gilead, too, 
had her anxiety ; though, it pains us to con- 


fess it, her husband — it is too. common a fault, 
crime we should rather say--did not respond 
Vvith all his heartstrings to the vibrating 
chords of his partner. But how rare is it tc 
find a wedded man with a proper sympathy 
for the distress of his wife ! The elements 
may have suddenly conspired to spoil her 
bonnet, she may have broken her dearest bit 
of china, the cat may have run off with her 
gold- fish, and at that very moment, above all 
others, her husband will insult her with his 
philosophy. And so it was with the anxieties 
of Mrs. Gilead. She felt that, whilst young 
St. James lay pillowed under her roof, she 
was answerable for the sweetness of his slum- 
bers ; nay, almost for the pleasantness of his 
dreams. She was wakeful herself in her 
tenderness for the repose of her guest. “ I 
do hope his lordship will sleep,” she said, 
twice and thrice to her wedded master. 

“ Bless the woman !” cried the Doctor, at 
the time perplexed with the thought of some 
possible I novelty for the next day’s dinner, 

“ of course he’ll sleep. Why not ? We 
have no fleas, have we ?” 

“ Fleas, Doctor Gilead ! Don’t insult me ! 
Fleas in my beds !” and Mrs. Gilead spoke 
tremulously, as though hurt, wounded in her 
huswifery — the weakest place of the weak- 
est sex. And Doctor Gilead knew there 
was not a flea in the house : but it was like 
the man — it was like the brotherhood at 
large — ^to suggest to a wife the probability of 
the most impossible annoyance. Of course, 
it was only said to hurt her. 

Nor let us forget the Miss Gileads. For 
each, saying no syllable to the other, was 
sleepless with the thoughts of providing life- 
long bliss foj* the noble, the beautiful guest. 
How delightful to make him happy for the 
rest of his days, and how very advantageous 
to be a legal partner in the felicity. If eyes 
ever did dazzle — if lips ever did take man’s 
heart from his bosom, like a stone from a 
black cherry (we think that simile perfect,) 
eyes and lips should do the double deed to- 
morrow. 

And young St. James, in a deep sea of 
eider-down, took his rest ; none the worse, 
it may be, that he knew not of the conspi- 
racy working against his freedom. Three 
sets of hymeneal chains were almost all night 
long hammered at by three young ladies, and ‘ 
yet the unconscious victim slept, — even as 
the culprit takes unbroken rest, whilst ham- 
mers fall upon the scaffold for to-morrow. 

If the reader will pass the intentions of the 
^oung ladies as at least benevolently pur- 
posed, he must confess that we have for the 
last three chapters left young St. James 
mdSt tenderly cared for. Sleeping and 
waking he has had the prettiest cares, the 
sweetest attentions, like a shower of rose 
leaves, cast upon him. And now Monday 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


129 


morning was come. The morning of the 
flay of nomination was arrived. A iaw-ma- 
ker was to be made by the voice of a free 
people ; a senator, without crack or flaw ; a 
perfect crystal vessel of the state was to be 
blown by Ihe breath of unbought man. Na- 
ture seemed to sympathise with the work ; 
at least, such was the belief of Doctor Gi- 
lead, his imagination kindling somewhat 
with the occasion. He rose only a little 
later than the sparrows ; and from the beauty, 
the enjoyment of out-door objects, took the 
happiest omens. A member was to be re- 
turned to Parliament. Certainly the lark 
never fluttered nearer heaven — never sang 
so hopefully. Such was Doctor Gilead’s 
sweet belief ; and rapt in it, he did not the 
next moment hear the voice of an ass in a 
distant meadow — gave no ear to his own 
geese gaggling near his barn. Happy the 
superstition that on such occasions will only 
listen to the lark ! 

Everybody appeared at breakfast wdth a 
face drest for triumph. Had his lordship 
slept well ?” asked Mrs. Gilead ; and with 
voices that would melt the heart of a man, 
were the thing really soluble, each Miss 
Gilead put the same question, but with a 
manner that plainly said her peace of mind 
depended on an affirmative reply. His lord- 
ship had slept well. Each and all of the 
Miss Gileads were blest for their existence ! 

“ Plow do you do, Mr. P’older ?” asked his 
lordship, as that worthy man, with his old 
equable look, entered the breakfast parlor. 

. Now, Mr. Folder had never looked better — 
never felt better. His calmness, his philo- 
sophy was astonishing, admirable ; the more 
so, as it was his friend and not himself who 
had lost a treasure of gold. In few words ; 
and in his own smiling way, Mr. Folder 
said he was charming. 

“ But where’s Tangle ? eh ? — not left 
Tangle behind ?” cried his lordship. 

“ No, no,” said Folder, with a happy 
smile. “ He preferred a walk across the 
fields.” 

“ Poor fellow ! he doesn’t often get a bit 
of grass in London, I dare say,” said the 
Doctor ; v/ho then turned to his lordship, 
and rubbing his hands, and laughing as at 
the enjoyment of a sweet secret, said, “it 
wouldn’t do, my lord, to lose Tangle ; no, 
no, we must take care of Tangle.” Inno- 
cent Doctor Gilead ! At that moment he 
thought the agent the happy keeper of thou- 
sands of the birds of P'aradise hatched at 
( the Mint : and alack ! they had made wings 
j for themselves, and flown away. Had the 
/ Doctor known the condition of Tangle, what 
an abject, forlorn varlet would he have 
seemed in the offended eyes of his admirer. 

Mr. Tangle was announced. He entered 
the room ; his face galvanised into a smile. 


It was plain, at least, to Folder, who knew 
all, that the agent had laboured so hard to 
get that smile into his countenance that it 
would be very difficult to dismiss it — it was 
so fixed, so very rigid. It was, in fact, the 
hardest smile cut in the hardest oak. 

“ Quite well, I trust, Mr. Tangle ? None 
the worse, I hope, for last night ? said young 
St. James, gaily. 

Tangle’s knees struck each other at his 
lordship’s voice. Last night ? Did his lord- 
ship, then, know of the robbery ? Such was 
the first confusion of Tangle’s thoughts ; and 
he then remembered that his lordship doubt- 
less hinted at the wine swallowed, and riot 
at the gold carried away. Whereupon Tan- 
gle declared that he was quite well — never 
better. And then he resolutely put down a 
rising groan. 

“ Nothing the worse for anything last 
night. I’ll be bound, eh, Mr. Tangle ?” cried 
Doctor Gilead, alive, as every man ought to 
be, to the reputation of his wine, when the 
wine, like the Roman’s wife, is not to be 
suspected. “ I should think not. And, Mr. 
Tangle, I’ve not forgotten the carp that 
pleased you so much. There’s plenty in the 
pond ; and we’ll have some of the finest, I 
can tell you.” At this moment the Doctor 
was summoned from the room ; whilst new 
visitors continued to arrive, assembling to 
escort the noble candidate to a very modest 
fabric, largely christened as the Town-Hall. 
Young St. James knew everybody — wel- 
comed everybody. There was not a man 
present with whom he would not and could 
not have shared his heart, — it was so unex- 
pectedly large upon the happy occasion. 

“ Don’t you wish, my lord, that your no- 
ble father the excellent Marquess was here 
to see your triumph ?” exclaimed one of the 
artless Miss Gileads. Rosy ignorance ! 
She knew not that, however the paternal 
heart might have yearned to be present, it 
was sternly checked by a strong sense of 
constitutional duty. For the Marquess, as a 
peer of England, could not, must not, di- 
rectly or indirectly seem to interfere in the 
election of a member of Parliament — in the 
free assertion of the people’s choice. There- 
fore it was only permitted to the father, the 
peer, and the patriot to send his banker. 

And still the visitors poured in ; and as 
the crowd grew, every man looked more im- 
portant, as though catching zeal and con- 
stancy of purpose from new-comers. “ The 
borough’s been in the family these thousand 
years,” cried a spare, fibrous, thin-faced 
man, with a high piercing voice, “ and* the 
Constitootion had better go to sleep at once if 
any nobody’s to come to represent us.” 

“ Tell ’ee what. Muster Flay, we own’t stand 
it,” said a freeholder in a smock frock, that 
in its unspecked whiteness might have typi- 


130 


THE HISTORY OF 


fied the purity of election. “ We own’t 
stand it. My father and his father — and 
hisn after hisn — all of ’em did vote for the 
family, — and when folks come to ax me for 
my vote agin ’em — why, as I says to my 
wife, it’s like a flyin’ in the face of Provi- 
dence.” 

“ To be sure it is” — answered Flay — “ it’s 
ungrateful, and more, it’s unconstitootional.” 

“ No, no. Muster Flay : the Blues have 
always paid me and mine very well.” 

“ Hush ! Not so loud,” said Flay, with his 
finger at his eloquent lip. 

“ Bless ’ee, everybody knows as every- 
body’s paid,” answered the clean-breasted 
voter. 

“ To be sure they do ; nevertheless,” ob- 
served Flay, “ it isn’t constitootional to know 
it. It’s what we call a fiction in the law ; 
but you know something o’ these things. 
Master Stump,” said the barber, who then 
drew himself back a little to take a better 
look of the fine specimen of ignorance before 
him. 

“ What’s a fickshun ?” asked Stump. — 
“ Somethin’ o’ use, I ’spose ?” 

“ I believe you, the constitootion couldn’t 
go on without it. ' Fictibn in the constitoo- 
tion is like the flour in a plum-pudding — it 
holds all the prime things in it together.” 

“ I see,” answered Stump, with a grin, 
“ if they hadn’t no fickshun, they’d make a 
very pretty biling of it !” 

And after this irreverent fashion, compa- 
ring the lofty uses and the various wisdom 
of the Constitution to the ingredients of a 
Christmas pudding, did Flay, the ^ Blue bar- 
ber, and his pupil in the art of government, 
discourse amid the mob assembled in the 
grounds of Lazarus Hall ; when a feint 
cheer, an ineffectual shout, rose from some 
of the mob gathered about a horseman ar- 
rived in haste, with special news. This in- 
telligence was speedily conveyed to Doctor 
Gilead, whose face suddenly glowed like 
stained glass, he was so delighted with the 
tidings. Making his way back to his lord- 
ship, the Doctor cried — “ Joy, ftiy lord ! Joy ! 
Joy! The enemy won’t stand! The Yel- 
low’s mounted the white feather ! No con- 
test, my lord — no contest! Three cheers, 
gentlemen, for our member !” And Doctor 
Gilead, for a while forgetful of the meekness 
of the pastor in the zeal of the patriot, sprang 
upon a chair, and loudly huzzaed. His note 
of rejoicing was responded to, but somehow 
not heartily. The assembly tried to look 
very delighted, very triumphant ; yet, it was 
plaih, they felt a latent annoyance. Was it 
that they were disappointed of the pleasing 
excitement of a hard-oentested, constitutional 
fight ? Was it, too, that every man felt him- 
self considerably lowered, not only in his 
self-estimation, but in the value that would 


otherwise have been set upon him by oppo- 
site buyers ? It is a painful feeling to be at 
the tyrannous, the ignorant valuation o.^ any 
one man ; and doubtfess, many of the electors 
of Liquorish shared in this annoyance, for 
now they might be bought at young St. 
James’s own price. When a man does drive 
his principle, like his pig, to market, it must 
try the Christian spirit of the seller to find 
only a solitary buyer. The principle, like the 
pig, may be a very fine principle ; a fine, 
healthy, thorough-going principle ; and yet 
the one buyer, because the only one, may 
chaffer for it as though the goods were a 
very measly principle indeed. The man 
must sell ; so there goes a principle for next 
to nothing ; a principle that, with a full 
market, would have fetched any money. To 
sell a principle may be the pleasantest thing 
in the world, but to give it away is another 
matter. 

In Mr. Tangle, the news excited mixed 
emotions. He rejoiced that the money would 
be less needed than had there been an oppo- 
sing buyer in the market : and then he felt 
doubly sad at the loss : for with the gold in 
his possession, and there being the less ne- 
cessity for its wide expenditure, he might — 
he felt sure he could have done it somehow 
— yes, he might have levied a heavy per 
centage upon what remained. There would 
have been a larger body of metal for the ex- 
periment ; and let this be said of him. Tangle 
always preferred such experiments on a 
grand scale. Thus Tangle, confused in soul, 
and downcast in demeanor, suffered himself 
to be led to one of the half-dozen carriages 
prepared for the procession to the Town Hall. 

Shall we attempt a description of the mob 
in vehicles — the mob on horseback — and the 
mob on foot, departing from the rectory, 
bound on the solemn duty of making a fire- 
new senator ? No : we will merely chroni- 
cle the touching truth that, as the mob moved 
on, they sent forth a cheer, that was shrilly 
answered from the topmost windows of the 
rectory, whereat all sorts of maids, covered 
all over with blue ribbands, screamed, and 
fluttered handkerchiefs and napkins in glad 
augury of triumph. The order of the rector 
for the profusest display of St. James’s 
colours had been carried out with respond ino- 
zeal by his retainers. Blue fluttered ever^ 
where. The dairy-maid had decked Crum- 
ple’s horns with blue, and the animal, as the 
maid averred, seemed very proud indeed of 
the badge ; had she worn it in honor of her 
own son, then only a fortnight old, she could 
not have looked more complacent, happy. 
There was not a single ass belonging to the 
rectory that did not somewhere harry the 
colour ; and we do assure the reader, very 
pave and very wise the asses looked with 
it. They seemed, as Jock the hind observed, 


ST. GILES ,AND ST. JAMES. 


131 


to understand ‘-the thing like any Christian.” 
A blue flag fluttered from the top of tiie rec- 
tory — and blue streamers from every out- 
house. Even the gilt weathercock — the fact 
somehow escaped the eye of the rector — bore 
at its four points a long, long strip of blue 
riband in honour of the political principles of 
the Blue candidate. 

The mob, we say, cheered as they set for- 
ward from the rectory, and the men-servants 
and the maid-servants cheered again. The 
household gods of Lazarus Hall drew a long 
breath as relieved from the crowd and tumult 
of the mob that had hustled and confused 
them ; and the solemn row of Ecclesiastical 
Fathers, standing in Church-militant file 
upon the library shelves, once more seemed 
to feel themselves the undisturbed possessors , 
of their oaken home. Poor old fellows ! — 
many of them, too, such wonderful hands at 
chopping one hair into little bundles of hairs, 
the better to make springes with — so many 
too, the Eloquent Dumb — the Great Forgot- 
ten — the Illustrious Dim — the Folio Furni- 
ture in calf or truly pastoral vellum — for five- 
and-twenty years had stood upon the shelf, 
and no rude hand had ever touched them. 
They had been bought by Dr. Gilead, and 
made to stand before all men visiting the li- 
brary, as vouchers for the learning of the 
rector. But when Scipio — of course, sir, 
you remember the story — when Scipio, by 
the fortune of war, was made the some time 
guardian of a beautiful princess, Scipio him- 
self was not more respectful of her charms, 
than was Dr. Gilead of the fascinations of 
the Fathers : he never knew them — never. 
We are aware that there may be vulgar 
souls who, judging from their simial selves, 
may doubt the continence of Scipio : we 
think this very likely ; for sure we are that 
many folks, seeing the scholastic beauties 
possessed by Dr. Gilead, believed he must en- 
joy them : for the Doctor, like Scipio, never 
bragged of his abstinence. He, good soul, 
suffered men to think just what they pleased ; 
but this we know, although the Fathers were 
for five-and-twenty years in the po’wer of 
Doctor Gilead, yet, a Scipio in his way, he 
never — to speak scrupulously like a matron 
— he never so much as laid his little finger 
on them. 

Therefore, shortly before, the arrival of his 
lordship, was it a great surprise to the 
Fathers to find themselves one morning 
taken from the shelves and opened. How 
stiff, poor fellows, were they all in the back ! 
Amd no doubt, very much astounded was 
Origen, and Basil, and Theophylactus, and 
Jerom, and Tertullian, and other respectable 
Fathers, to' find themselves dusted and 
thwacked as they, when in the flesh, were 
wont to dust and thwack their disputants ; 
the man-servant and the maid-servant, other- 


I wise intent, taking no more account of them 
1 than if they were old day-books and ledgers. 

I In the vanity of their hearts — at least, in as 
much vanity as can belong to churchmen — 
they thought they were to be consulted and 
reverenced ; in a word, made much of. And 
their owner. Doctor Gilead, did make much 
of them. He paid them the deepest devo- 
tion of which the good man was sensible ; 
for he had them all packed off to be newly 
furnished and newly gilt; and there the 
dead Fathers of the Church stood glistening 
with gold ; and doubtless as uneasy in the 
splendour forced upon them as any bishop 
in a coach-and-four. There they were, like 
the cherubim, “ in burning row doomed, 
however, to perpetual silence — perpetual ne- 
glect. Now and then the Doctor would, of 
course, glance at them to satisfy himself that 
they stood in order : he would occasionally 
run his eye along the shelves, like an officer 
inspecting his regiment ; but the Doctor no 
more thought of consulting some of those 
picked men of the army of martyrs, than 
would the very gorgeous colonel pause to 
gossip with the drummer. There they stood, 
a sort of divinity guard of honor. A body, 
very necessary to assert the importance of 
the rank of the great man in whose service 
they were called out, but on no account to 
be made familiar with. And the tumultuous 
mob departed from the Hall and left the 
Fathers — with their newly-gilt backs glit- 
tering in the sun — to meditate on human 
turbulence and human vanity. Poor Fathers ! 
twice were they doomed to be fed upon. 
They had been duly eaten in the grave, and 
now their body of divinity, embalmed, as 
they vainly thought it, in printer’s ink, was 
drilled and consumed by that omnivorous 
library worm, of the birth and history of 
which entomologists have, we are sure of it 
a very false and foolish notion. Now, it is 
our conviction, that as the worms that con- 
sume the body of the author are bred not in 
his grave dust, but in his own flesh, so do the 
worms — the only living things that go en- 
tirely through some tomes — found in books, 
wholly originate and take their birth from 
the written matter of the volume. Hence, 
the quiddities, and concetti, and what Eve, 
once in her pouts with Adam (for the phrase 
is as old) called the maggots of the brain, 
that abound in much controversial theology 
do, in process of time, become those little 
pestilent things that entirely eat up paper, 
print, and all. A warning this to men, if 
they would have their printed bodies last, to 
take care and avoid the aforesaid quiddities, 
and concetti, and maggots. For little knows 
the thoughtless beholder of many a tall sturdy 
volume, what certain devastation is going on 
among its leaves. Many a controversialist 
who has shaken thunderbolts, but which, in- 


132 


THE^ HU 

deed, were nothing worse than little pebbles 
in a tin-pot — by means of which, by the 
way, we have seen boys make asses gallop, 
pebbles jingled in a pot being thunder to 
asses — many a Jupiter of syllables in his 
day is, at this moment, being slowly but 
surely devoured, and that too by the vermi- 
celli breed in what he deemed his own im- 
mortal thunder. Was there not, to give a 
very familiar instance, the famous Miianbet- 
timartinius, who wrote a mighty folio to 
prove that there were no fleas in the Ark ? 
Did he not stand upon his flea as a post-di- 
luvian creation — stand upon it as the great 
pyramid on its base, for the bows and salaams 
of all posterity ? And where and what is 
Miianbettimartinius now ? A dead body of 
polemics. Now and then we see him hand- 
somely bound upon a rector’s, a bishop’s 
shelf; Doctor Gilead had a very fine tall 
copy ; but we can see through the binder’s 
cuticle ; our mental vision can pierce through 
calf-skin, and behold the worms at work. 
Pooh ! the whole thing is as alive and wrig- 
gling as an angler’s box of gentles. 

But we must really quit the Fathers, and 
fall in with the mob. We shall not attempt 
to count the number of votes on horseback — 
the number of votes on foot — that preceded 
and followed, and on each side hemmed about 
the carriage of the noble candidate. Every- 
body, save Tangle, looked happy. And he, 
although he rode in a very fine coach, would 
insist upon looking as though he was taking 
a final journey in a cart ; and although a 
young clergyman of excellent family, one in 
whose orthodoxy Doctor Gilead had great 
hopes for one of his daughters — although the 
young gentleman let off some capital jokes, 
bran-new from Cambridge, in Tangle’s private 
ear, for his private delight, he Tangle did 
nothing but slightly bow, and look glassily 
about him, as though that very promising 
young clergyman was at the moment impart- 
ing the most solemn consolation ; which, it 
is but hard justice to him, again to assure the 
reader, it was not. Tangle’s soul was with 
his guineas. And it was as if every guinea 
had a particular hold of his soul, and each 
guinea was flying a different way, — tearing 
and tugging at the poor soul in a thousand 
directions. ‘''The young clergyman was in- 
cessant in his attentions. “ I say, old Death’s- 
head” — thus familiar did the great cause in 
which both were riding make the man of 
Cam and the man of law, — “ I say, look at 
that girl with cherry ribands.” 

Tangle was determined to put down this 
libertine familiarity at once and for ever. 
He, therefore, never deigning to look at 
either cherry lips or cherry ribands, observed, 

“ Sir, I am a married man.” Mr. Tangle 
believed that he had at once abashed, con- 
founded his bee acquaintance. He had ut- ' 


TORY or 

tered that, which he felt ought to silence any 
decent person ; he had spoken his worst, 
and looked to be, at least, respected. He 
wished, however, to be very secure, and 
therefore repeated, — “ Sir, I am a married 
man.” Whereto the young gentleman re- 
sponded, and let us do him justice, with evi- 
dent sympathy — “Poor devil !” 

The procession moved on — the music 
played — and there was not one of the mob 
who did not feel a huge interest in the very 
handsome young lord who was going up to 
parliament to take especial care of all of 
them. — In the like way, that when the knight 
of old was armed, and about to go forth to 
slay the dragon that carried off men, virgins 
and cattle, and continually breathed a brim- 
stone blight upon the crops and herbage, 
making dumpish the heart of the farmer — in 
the like way that he was attended by sage, 
grey-headed reverence, by youths and mai- 
dens, bearing garlands and green boughs, 
and accompanying him with shouts, and 
prayers, and loving looks, so did the young 
lord St. James take his way to the hustings, 
that he might therefrom depart for Parlia- 
ment, there to combat with and soundly drub 
the twenty dragons always ready to eat up 
everybody and everything, if not prevented 
by the one particular member. Young St. 
James would be the champion against the 
dragon taxation ; he would keep the monster 
from the farmer’s bacon — from the farmer’s 
wife’s eggs — from the farmer’s daughter’s 
butter ; he would protect their rights ; and 
the farmer, and farmer’s wife, and farmer’s 
daughter, all felt that they had a most dear 
and tender interest in that splendid young 
gentleman, who would do nothing but bow 
to them, and smile upon them, just for all the 
world as if he was no bit better than they. 

“ He’ll let ’em know what’s what when he 
gets among ’em,” said an old countryman 
to Flay, who, that he might be as near as 
possible to the lord about to be a law-maker, 
walked with his hand upon the carriage. 

“ They’ve had it all their own way long 
enough; he’ll make ’em look about ’em.” 

“The man for the constitootion. That’s 
plain with half an eye ; he’s born with it all 
in his head, like a cock with a comb,” said 
Flay. “ It’s in the family ” continued the 
barW; “in the family.” 

The procession halts at the Hall. We • 
pass the cheering, the groaning oT the oppo- 
site parties. We pass all the hubbub of the 
election, as familiar to the British ear as the 
roar of the British Lion. It was plain, that 
it was already known there would be no con- 
test ; whereupon dark and blank were the 
looks of the Yellows, and very loud and 
fierce their denunciations. The Blues, too, 
though they put a boldly happy face on the 
matter, were ill at ease. A sharp opposi- 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


133 


tion would have given them great delight, 
inasmuch as their tried patriotism would 
have shone all the brighter for the test. 

And now the solemn business is opened by 
Mr. Mayor, too oppressed by the greatness 
of the occasion, to suffer one word of his 
very eloquent address to be heard by the 
multitude*; who, — no doubt, in gratitude, — 
cheered uproariously. 

The Reverend Doctor Gilead then stept 
forward ; and suddenly the crowd seemed to 
feel themselves at church, they were so 
hushed. The Doctor said that nothing but 
his long knowledge, his affection for his lord- 
ship, could have induced him to break from 
that privacy which they all knew was his 
greatest happiness. But he had a duty to 
perform ; a duty to his country, to them, and 
to himself. TW duty was to propose the 
distinguished nobleman before them, as their 
legal and moral representative in parliament. 

And young St. James was duly proposed 
and seconded. “Is there no other candi- 
date ?’’ asked the Mayor, with a conscious 
face that there was not. 

“ Yes,” cried a voice : and imm.ediately a 
man stept forward, whilst the Yellows roar- 
ed with triumph. “ I have to propose,” said 
the man — and reader, that man was no other 
than Ebenezer Snipeton, husband of Clarissa, 
— “ I have to propose, as the representative 
of the borough of Liquorish, Matthew Cap- 
stick, Esq.” 

A shout of derision burst from the Blues. 
Fora moment, the Yellows, taken by surprise, 
were silent ; they then paid back the shouts 
with shoutings vehement. 

“ Does anybody second Matthew Capstick ?” 
asked the Mayor aghast. 

“ I does,” cried Rasp ; and again the Yel- 
lows shouted. 

The Reverend Doctor Gilead looked 
haughtily, contemptuously, at the farce act- 
ed about him. Nevertheless, he thought it 
necessary to demand a poll for young St. 
James; the show of hands — as the astound- 
ed Mayor was compelled to own — ‘being “ de- 
cidedly in favor of Mr. Capstick.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ Why you never mean to do it?”i asked 
Bright Jim anxiously, sorrowfully. 

“ A man is wedded to his country, Jim ; 
and being wedded, must listen to her voice,” 
was the answer of Capstick. 

It was nearly midnight, and the late 
muffin-maker and his man sat alone in the 
Tub. The news of his probable election for 
Liquorish had fallen upon Capstick explosive- 
ly. He had, in truth, been much startled, 
agitated by the tidings ; but, tlie muffin- ' 


maker was a philosopher, and after a brief 
hour or two, he had subdued the flesh-quakes 
of the merely modest man, trembling at his 
own under- valuation, and sat re-assured and 
calm, contemplating his possible appearance 
amidst the sages of the land, himself a sage, 
with the quiet resignation of a patriot. 
Capstick industriously essayed a look, a 
manner of monumental tranquillity. He 
smoked apparently, for all the world, like a 
common man ; and yet — it did not escape 
the affectionate glance of Jem — yet did Cap- 
stick’s eye now and then burn and glow with 
I a new light, even as the tobacco at the breath 
i of the smoker, glowed through the embers. 
Rapidly was his heart enlarging with the 
good of the nation. Orations, to be uttered 
to the world at the proper season, were con- 
ceived in the muffin-maker’s bfain ; and as 
he sat, like a pagan god, in a cloud of his 
own making, they already grew and grew, 
and he already felt for them the mysterious 
love of the parent towards the unborn. Al- 
ready his ears rang with the shoutings of an 
instructed, a delighted senate. His heart 
beat thick with the thought of Magna Charta, 
and the tremendous uses he would yet make 
of, that sublime text. With no hope, no 
thought of parliament, it had been the pride 
of the muffin-maker to despise the world and 
its doings; a hopeless world, overstocked 
with fools and knaves, altogether unworthy 
of the consideration of a philosophic mind. 
And now with the chance of becoming a 
senator, Capstick felt a sudden charity for 
the universe. After all, it was a universe 
not to be neglected. And for the men and 
women inhabiting it— poor two-legged em- 
mets !— they must not be suffered to go to 
ruin their own perverse way. He would, 
therefore, go to parliament, and save tliem. 
Now, when a man has once for all determin- 
ed upon a magnanimous line of conduct, he 
cannot but for the time look the better, the 
bigger, for the resolution. It is thus in all 
cases. For instance, when a virgin, with 
lowered lids and lips trembling at their own 
courage, drops the “ yes” that is to make a 
man beatific for the terra of his natural ex- 
istence— a “ yes” at which all the wedding- 
rings in all the goldsmith’s shops sympatheti- 
cally vibrate, — she, the virgin, looks as she 
never before looked in her life ; sublimated, 
glorified, with a halo of beauty about her ; 
a halo catching light from' her liquid eyes 
and rosy, burning face. And when, too, the 
widow with a sweet audacity, facing the 
mischief, man, as an old soldier faces a 
cannon, says “ yes,” tolling the monosyllable 
shortly, boldly as a bell tolls one — she, too, 
expands a little — ^just a little, with the 
thought, the good determined upon, — she, 
too, has her halo, though certainly of a 
dimmer kind ; just a little dulled, like a 


134 


THE HISTORY OF 


second-hand ring. So true it is, that 
nagnanimity has an expansive, a decorative 
quality. And so when Capstick, for a mo- 
ment, felt himself a member of Parliament, 
he felt for the time his waistcoat much too 
small for him. In the like way that when, 
stirred by great emotions, the female heart 
takes a sudden shoot, it is sometimes neces- 
sary to cut the stay-lace to allow for the 
growth. 

And Capstick sat enlarged by his own 
thoughts ; with the ears of his soul up-prick- 
ed — ^for souls have ears, and at times pretty 
long ones — as though listening for the trum- 
pets that should sound a blast for his triumph. 
But Bright Jem had a heavy, dolorous ex- 
pression of the divine countenance of man. 
His master was in danger of being a Mem- 
ber of Parliament. He was, at that moment, 
in the imminent peril of being taken from 
rustic delights, from the sweet, the flowery 
leisure of the country, to be turned into a 
maker of laws. His condition weighed heav- 
ily upon the sense of his faithful, his affec- 
tionate servant ; who gazed upon him as Py- 
lades would have regarded Orestes, had dear 
Orestes been sentenced to the pillory. Cap- 
stick already felt himself in the House of 
Commons, and smiled through his own smoke, 
as he thought of one of the hundred speech- 
es he would make, and the cheers that would 
celebrate its delivery ; and Bright Jem only 
thought of the unsavory missiles to be hurl- 
ed at his friend in the hour of his trial. 

“A man is wedded to his country, Jem,” 
repeated Capstick, with a growing love for 
the assertion. 

“ His country ! Why you don’t call Li- 
quorish your country, do you ? Besides, what 
does the country know about you except your 
muffins : if the country hasn’t quite forgot 
them by this time ? If you are made a mem- 
ber of Parliament — heaven preserve you, says 
I — you’ll only be made of spite and malice,” 
cried James. \ 

Mr. Capstick took his pipe wide away from 
his mouth, and began whaf would doubtless 
have been a very eloquent speech. Bright 
Jem, however, suffered him to get no farther 
than — “ The choice of the people, Jem.” 

“ The people ! The choice of the guineas, 
that’s it, Mr. Capstick. A member for Li- 
quorish ! Well, they might as well make a 
little image of the golden calf over agin, and 
send that to parliament : for that’s the peo- 
ple’s choice hereabouts. Why, you must 
know, that it’s for no love of you that Snipe- 
ton, as they call him, put you up. To carry 
his pint agin his young lordship, for there’s 
some sore atween ’em — he’d send a chimney- 
sweeper to parliament without washing.” 

“Impossible!” cried Capstick, with very 
considerable dignity. 

“ Certain of it,” insisted Jem, “else why, 


may I be so bold to ask, should he pitch upon 
you?” 

“ I am not exactly a chimney sweeper, Mr. 
James ; not exactly,” observed Capstick, ma- 
jestically. 

“ A course not : a good way from it : but 
you know what I mean, don’t you,” said Jem. 

“ It is no matter. Mr. Snipeton has very 
briefly satisfied me of the purity, the patriot- 
ism of his intentions, and — good night, Mr. 
James,” and Capstick rose. “ I must rise 
early to-morrow.” 

“ Don’t say, Mr. James, then : it’s putting 
a stone in my pillow that I couldn’t sleep on, 
seeing I’m not used to it. God bless yoU; 
sir — good night,” and Jem held forth his hand. 

“ Good night, Jem,” said Capstick, taking 
Jem’s hand. “ And mind, to-morrow, early 
— very early, Jem.” 

Almost at dawn, Jem was in the garden, 
digging, digging as though he would get rid 
of thought. At times, very savagely would 
he plunge the spade into the earth, as though 
it relieved him. And then he groaned, hum- 
med, and sighed. And the morning broke 
gloriously; and the birds sang and whistled; 
and the flowers came laughing out in the 
sunshine. The summer earth, one wide al- 
tar, steamed with sweetest incense to hea- 
ven. 

Jem had laboured in the garden for a cou- 
ple of hours before Capstick joined him in the 
garden. “Why, Jem, you’ve done a full 
half-day’s work already,” said the candidate 
for Liquorish. 

“ Somehow I couldn’t rest ; and when I 
did sleep, I had nothing but nasty dreams. 
If I didn’t dream you was taken to the Tower 
for pulling the speaker’s nose — and I know 
your temper, sir— nothing more likely — I 
wish I may die. Never had such a clear, 
clean dream in all my life. It was all made 
out so.” 

“ And what did they do with me at the 
Tower?” asked Capstick, a little tickled by 
the importance of the imprisonment. 

“ Why they chopped your head off as clean 
as a sheep’s,” said Jem earnestly. “ I saw 
’em do it ; heard the chopper go right through 
bone, gristle, and all.” Capstick clapt his 
hand to his neck, then suddenly took it away 
again, and shook hfo head and smiled. Jem 
continued. “ They chopt it off', and I heard 
it fall from the block with a bump. And af- 
ter that they cut you into four quarters to be 
hung up for an example.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! and that’s the worst they did,’^ 
cried Capstick ; “ there was an end then !” 

“ No there wasn’t,” said Jem ; “ for I 
dreamt that they made me pack up one of the 
quarters, like spring-lamb, and carry it to 
your old muffin shop, and hang it jest over 
the door atween the two windows, as a warn- 
ing to all traitors. And 1 hung it up. And 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


135 


then I dreamt I sat down on the door-step, and 
it was as much as ever I could do to keep the 
birds from pecking at you, for all I did noth- 
ing but pelt ’em with dollars.” 

“ Very extravagant,” said Capstick, who 
added gravely, laying his hand very tenderly 
upon Jem’s shoulder, “ when the time really 
comes, don’t throw away silver ; first try pen- 
ny pieces.” Jem shook his head : he could 
not relish the humor of the economy. 

“ If, now, they really should make a mem- 
ber of parliament of you” — Jem shuddered 
at the notion as at the thought of some nau- 
seous drug — “ you don’t mean to .say you’ll 
leave the Tub, the garden and all ?” 

“ The voice of th^e country, Jem, must be 
obeyed. We’ll come down here, and recruit 
our.selves when the House is prorogued. We 
shall enjoy it all the more for the work of the 
session,” Capstick already spoke like a 
member. 

“ Well, I know somethin’ of parliament, 
for I knew poor Sam Chilterns, the linkman, 
as was killed by the late hours. He used to 
tel] me a good deal about it ; whatever plea- 
sure you can have, to go and sit steaming 
among a mob of folks — and hearing speech- 
es and sums of figures that you don’t know 
nothing about, and never opening your own 
mouth.” 

“ Never think it, Jem,” cried Capstick, “ I 
shall speak and very often — very often.” , 

“The Lord help you!” exclaimed Jem, 
amazed at such determination. “ At your 
time of life, too !” 

“ That’s it, Jem. Twenty, ten, years ago, 
I shouldn’t have been ripe for it. Really 
great men are slow of growth ; I feel that I 
have just reached my prime, and my country 
shall have it. You don’t know — how should 
you ? — what I may meet with in parliament,” 

“ A little on it,” said Jem. “You’ll meet 
with bad hours and noisy company ; and 
you’ll turn night into day and day into night, 
and so do no good with one or the other. 
Meet ! Will you meet with such company 
as you leave ? I should like to know that ?” 

“ Why, what company do I leave ?” asked 
Capstick, coldly, and with dignity. 

“ Why, the company about you,” cried 
Jem, and Capstick shortly coughed. “ Look 
at ’em : will you meet with anything like 
them roses, jest opening their precious 
mouths, and talking to you in their own way 
— for how often you’ve said they do talk, if 
people will only have the sense to understand 
’em! You’ll go to court, perhaps; and if 
you do, will you meet with finer velvet than’s 
in them heartease ? will you see any dia- 
monds” — and here Jem struck a bush with 
his spade, and the dew drops in a silver show- 
er trembled and fell from it — “ any diamonds 
brighter and wholesomer than them ? Will 
you hear anytliing like that in parliament 1” 


cried Jem emphatically, and he pointed up- 
wards to a fluttering speck, a lark in the high 
heavens, gushing with song. 

“ These things are to be enjoyed in their 
due season ; when, as I say, the house is pro- 
rogued,” said Capstick. j 

“ And what’s to become of all the animals 
that I thought you so fond on ? They’ll 
none on ’em come to good when you’re away. 
There’s them beautiful bees — sensible things! 
— you don’t think they’ll have the heart to go 
on working, working, when you’re wasting 
your time in the House of Commons ? And 
you’ll go and make laws ! Ha ! We shan’t 
have no luck after that. If the bantam hen 
that’s sitting doesn’t addle all her eggs, I 
know nothing of bantams. Why, how,” — 
and Jem spoke in a saddened tone — “ how in 
six weeks do you think you’ll look ?” 

“ Look ! how should I look ?” cried Cap- 
stick, bending his brows. 

“ Why, you’ll look like a act of parliament ; 
and a precious old act, too ; all parchment 
like, with black marks. And you’ll go to 
bed when the sun gets up ; and instead of 
meeting him as you do now with a head as 
clear as spring water, and looking at him all 
health and comfort, and walking about hear- 
ing the birds and smelling the cows, the flow- 
ers, and the fresh earth — why you’ll be slink- 
ing home to your bed with no heart to stare 
in the sun’s face — and your precious head 
will seem biling with a lot of talk ; all wob- 
bling with speeches you can make nothin’ on 
— and you’ll soon wish yourself a mushroom, 
a toadstool, anything to be well in the coun- 
try agin.” 

“ Jem,” said Capstick, “you mean well ; 
but you’re an enthusiast.” 

“ You may call me what names you like,” 
said Jem, very resignedly, “ but you’ll never 
be happy away from the Tub.” 

“ You’ll lay the breakfast,” observed Cap- 
stick, peremptorily ending the conversation 
as he turned from the garden to the house, 
whilst Jem — as if he had a quarrel with the 
soil — dug his spade into the earth with in- 
creased energy. 

In a few minutes a hen broke out into the 
customary proclamation of a new egg. — 
“Well, I know,” cried' Jem pettishly, “I 
know you’re like a good many people, you 
are ; can’t even give poor folks an egg with- 
out telling all the world about it. Humph ! 
he may as well have ’em fresh while he 
can;” and Jem bent his way to the hen- 
roost — “ poor soul ! he’ll get nothin’ o’ the 
the sort when he’s a member of parliament.” 

In very dumpish spirits did Jem prepare 
the breakfast. But when he saw Capstick, 
habited in his very best, issue from his 
chamber, Jem groaned as though he looked 
upon a victim arrayed for the sacrifice. 
Capstick would not hear the note of tribula- ' 


136 


THE HISTORY OF 


\ 

lion, but observed^ — “ You’ll go with me, 
Jem.” 

“ I’d rather not,” said Jem ; “ but I ’spose 
I must go in the mob, to see as nobody pelts 
you. Humph ! I wonder what any Jew 
will give for that coat when you come home. 
JBut I ’spose it’s all right. People put their 
best on when they’re hanged, and why 
shouldn’t you ? All right, o’ course.” 

Capstick managed to laugh, and tried to 
eat his breakfast with even more than cus- 
tomary relish — but it would not do ; he had 
no appetite. He felt himself on the verge of 
greatness. And hi^ heart was so big it left 
him no stomach. Suddenly was heard the 
sound of distant music. “ Heaven save 
you !” cried Jem. “ they’re coming after 
you.” 

“ Don’t be a fool,” said the philosophic 
Capstick, and the music and the shooting 
seemed to enter his calm bosom like flame, 
for he suddenly observed, “ It’s very warm 
to-day, Jem.” 

“ Nothin’ to what it will be,” said Jem. 

“ Here they come. Afore it’s too late, will 
you hide under the bed, and I’ll say you’re 
out ?” Jem rapidly put the proposal as a last 
desperate resource. 

“ Don’t be a fool,” again cried Capstick, 
and with increased vehemence. “ Open the 
door.” 

“ It ’s all over — too late,” groaned Jem, 
and almost immediately the music came 
clanging to ihe window, and the mob huz- 
zaed, and Rasp, and others of Capstick’s 
committee, filled the cottage. 

“ Hurrah !” cried Rasp, “ three cheers for 
Capstick! Capstick and the Constitution!” 
and the mob roared in obedience. “ Now, 
Mr. Capstick ; all right I can tell you. His 
lordship hasn’t a toe to stand upon — not a 
toe. This blessed night you’ll sleep Mem- 
ber for Liquorish ! Down with the Blues ! 
The Constitution and Capstick ! Hurrah ! 
Why, Jem” — cried the barber, suddenly as- • 
tounded — “you haven’t got no colour. — 
Here’s one.” i 

“ Well, if I must make myself a canary,” 
cried Jem, and he took the » proffered riband, 
and shook his head. ' 

“ Now, then, strike up, and three more 
cheers for Capstick and the Constitution,” 
roared Rasp. The trumpets sounded — the ; 
drums beat — the mob ' roared, — and amidst 
the hubbub, Capstick suffered himself to be ' 
carried off by the committee to one of the 
three carria^s drawn up at the end of the ' ' 
lane, whilst Bright Jefn, as though he walk- ' 
ed at a funeral, pensively followed. — In a 
few moments the line was formed ; and mu- 
sicians and mob, taking new breath, gave 
loudest utterance to their several instru- ' 
ments. And Capstick, the philosopher, ! 
smiled and bowed about him with all tlie ' 


easy grace of an old candidate. Bright Jem 
gazed at him with astonishment. Could it 
be possible that that smiling, courteous, 
bending man was the rigid muffin-maker ? 
After that, there was nothing true, nothing 
real in humanity. At once, Jem gave the 
world up. 

The procession reached the Town Hall. 
Hurrahs and hootings met Capstick ; who 
felt warm and cold at the salutations. It 
was plair^ however, that Capstick and the 
Constitution — as Rasp would couple them — • 
must triumph. The great confidence in 
young St. James had, somehow, been se- 
verely shaken. It was known even to the 
little children of the borough that the myste- 
rious chest of gold had been carried off ; and 
as the customary donation to the electors 
was not forthcoming, it was believed that 
young St. James would rashly trust to pu- 
rity of election. Tangle, secure in his be- 
lief that there would be no opposition to his 
lordship, had said no word of the robbery ; 
hence, he had suffered very valuable time to 
be lost — time that had been improved to the 
utmost by the agents of Snipeton, who, 
though he scarcely appeared himself, la- 
boured by means of his mercenaries, w ith all 
the ardour that hatred and gold could sup- 
ply, in the cause. When, however, it be- 
came certain that his lordship would be op- 
posed, Tangle felt the dire necessity — dire, 
indeed — of telling the truth. And then he 
felt he had not the courage to carry him 
through so unusual a task. Whereupon, he 
sneaked to his inn, ordered a post-chaise, 
placed himself and portmanteau therein, and 
late at night secretly drove towards London. 
Ere, however, he departed, he left a letter for 
the noble candidate. We give a correct 
copy. 

“ My Lord. — Deeply, indeed, do I regret 
that a circumstance-r-a tender circumstance 
— to which it is needless more particularly 
to allude (for what — what right have I, at 
such a time, to force my domestic sorrows on 
your lordship’s attention? — a tender circum- 
stance, I say, compels my immediate atten- 
dance in London. You may judge of the 
importance of the event from the very fact 
that, at such a time, it can sever me from 
your lordship. I leave you, however, in me 
full assurance of triumph — in the full belief 
that parliament, which has received so many 
ornaments from your noble house, has yet to 
obtain an unparalleled lustre in the genius 
of your lordship. With the profoundest re- 
spect, I am your lordship’s most devoted ser- 
vant, Luke Tangle.” 

“ f** S — ^W^e are all, in this mortal world, 
liable to accidents. My good friend, Mr. 
Folder, will inform your lordship of a cir- 
cumstance that has given me much pain : a 


' ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


137 


circumstance, however, that when I shall 
have the honour of next meeting your lord- 
ship, I doubt not I shall be able most fully to 
I explain to your lordship’s most perfect satis- 
faction. ” 

“ There is great villany in this, great vil- 
lany, my lord,” — said Doctor Gilead, pos- 
sessed of the contents of the letter — “ but it 
isn’t so much the money that’s lost; that 
may be remedied — it’s the time, the precious 
time. There is no doubt that the other side 
have taken the most unprincipled advantage 
of the calamity, and have bribed right and 
left. Nevertheless, we must not despair. 
No ; certainly not. We must look the dif- 
ficulty in the face like men, my lord — like 
men.” The Doctor, too, spoke like one de- 
termined to fight to the last minute, and the 
last guinea. And the Doctor was not mere- 
ly a man of words. No. With a fine deci- 
sion of character, he immediately drew a 
cheque for a much larger amount than was 
ever dreamt of by all the apostles, and con- 
fiding it to a trusty servant, he shortly but 
j emphatically said to him — “ Gold.” The 
man smilingly acknowledged the magic of 
that tremulous monosyllable, and departed 
blithely on his errand. Nevertheless, there 
was a strong sense of honour in the hearts 
of the majority of the patriots of Liquorish ; 
for although some took double bribes — al- 
though some suffered themselves to be gilt 
like weather-vanes, on both sides, — the 
greater number remained true to the first 
purchaser. It was the boast — the consola- 
tion that made so many of the Yellows walk 
upright through the world — that they stuck 
to their first bargain. The double fee would 
have been welcome, to be sure, but as some 
of them touchingly observed, they had cha- 
racters to take care of. Besides, the same 
candidate might come again. 

“ Can you have any notion of the cause of 
the motives of this man, Snipeton?” asked 
Doctor Gilead of young St. James, who 
slightly coloured at the home question. 

“ Why should he have started a candidate ?” 

“Possibly — I can’t tell — but I say possibly 
he has strong political feelings. But, ’tis no 
matter, ’twill only add to the excitement : at 
tne most, ’twill only be a joke. A muffin- 
maker sitting for Liquorisli ! For our bo- 
rough ! ’Tis too ridiculous to imagine,” and 
young St. James laughed. 

“ A very contemptible person, certainly,” 
said Doctor Gilead ; “ nevertheless, he’s 
twenty a-head of your lordship, and as there 
is not above another hour for polling, and 
we know the number of votes, matters do 
look a little desperate.” Such was the opinion 
of Doctor Gilead, very dolorously pronounced 
at an advanced period of the day; and young 


St. James although he had combated the 
notion like a man and a lord — began to give 
ground : it no longer seemed to him among 
the impossibilities of the world that the 
family borough of Liquorish might be usurped 
by a muffin-maker. And then St. James — 
thinking of Clarissa — meditated a terrible 
revenge upon her husband. 

In the meanwhile, the contest raged with 
every variety of noise and violence conse- 
quent upon the making of a member of par- 
liament. Songs were sung ; — how the poet 
was so suddenly found, we know not ; but 
discovered, he was potently inspired by ready 
gold and ale, and in no time enshrined the 
robbery of the money-box in verse. Every 
line, like a wasp, had a sting at the end of 
it, aimed at the coiTuption of the Blues. The 
concluding stanza too, breathed an ardent 
wish for the future prosperity and happiness 
of the thief — and an expression of kindness 
that Tom Blast, as he mingled among the 
mob, received with the silence of modesty. 
Tom’s only regret was that Jingo, his own 
child, had not been entrusted with the ballad, 
as the melody and the sentiment of the song 
were beautifully adapted to the voice and in- 
telligence of the young minstrel. Besides, 
there would have been something droll — 
very droll, a matter to be chuckled over with 
private friends — had Jingo chaunted the sa- 
tirical lament for the stolen gold ; he being, 
above all others, peculiarly fitted for the me- 
lodious task. And where could he be — once 
or twice thought the father, and then the 
paternal anxiety was merged in the deep in- 
terest of the- hour ; for Tom Blast with all 
his might roared and cheered and hooted in 
the cause of the Yellows. Much, we think, 
would it have abated the patriotic zeal of 
Capstick, had he known how vociferously he 
was lauded by the thief of Hog Lane. But 
at such a time,' applause must not be too 
curiously analysed. 

And now both parties began to number 
minutes. A quarter of an hour, and the 
poll would close. The Blues had for the 
past twenty minutes rallied; and Doctor 
Gilead rubbed his hands and declared that, 
in spite of the corrupt practices of the 
Yellows, in spite of the soul-buying bribery 
that had been resorted to by unchristian men, 
the rightful seat of St. James would not be 
usurped by a muffin-maker. Poor Jem hung 
about the Committee-rooms and secretly ex- 
ulted when Capstick receded ; as secretly 
mourned when he advanced. At length the 
final numbers were exhibited ; and to the 
joy of the Yellows, the despair of the Blues, 
and to the particular misery of Jem himself, 
Matthew Capstick, Esq., was declared twen- 
ty votes ahead of his opponent ! 

“ Three cheers for Capstick, our member,” 


138 


THE HISTOR’y OF 


4 


cried Rasp from the \\’indow of the Yellow 
Committee-room. “ Three cheers for Cap- 
stick and the Constitution !” 

“ Give it him,” cried Flay from an opposite 
house, and the obedient loyal mob of Blues 
discharged a volley of mud and stones and 
other constitutional missiles in use on such 
glorious occasions. Crash went the win- 
dows ; and, on the instant, the two factions 
in the street engaged in a general light ; all 
moving, as they combated, towards the 
Town Hall, already beset by a roaring mob. 

A few minutes, and Mr. Capstick appeared. 
Whereupon, the high bailiff* declared him 
duly elected a knight burgess, and buckled 
the sword about him — the sword with which, 
by a pretty fiction, the knight was to defend 
the borough of Loquorish from all sorts of 
wrong. Capstick, with the weapon at his 
thigh, advanced with great dignity ; and 
was for a time regardless of the showers of 
eggs and potatoes that, from the liberal hands 
of the Blues, immediately greeted him. 
The young lord St. James — how Snipeton 
leered at him ! — also appeared on the hus- 
tings, and accidentally received full in his 
face an egg, certainly intended for the visage 
of the successful candidate. It was plain, 
too, that Capstick thought so much, for he 
turned, and taking out his pocket handker- 
chief, advanced to his lordship, and in the 
politest manner observed, — ‘My lord, I have 
no doubt that egg was intended to be my 
property; will you therefore permit me to 
reclaim my own ?”— and saying this, Cap- 
stick with his white kerchief removed the 
offensive matter from his lordship’s face, 
whilst the crowd — touched by the courtesy 
of the new member — laughed and cheered 
uproariously. 

Mr. Capstick then advanced to the front 
of the hustings. At the same moment a 
potatoe fell short of him, near his foot. — 
Whereupon the member drew his sword, and 
running it into the potatoe, held it up to the 
mob. Another laugh — another cheer greet- 
ed the action. “ Silence ! he’s a rum ’un — 
hear him !” was the cry, and in less than ten 
minutes the new member was permitted to 
proceed. Whereupon he said : 

“ Gentlemen — for gentlemen in a mob are 
always known by their eggs and potatoes — 

I should, indeed, be unworthy of the honor 
you have placed and showered upon me, 
did I in any way complain of the manner in 
which you have exercised the privileges I see 
lying about me. I am aware, gentlemen, 
that it is the free birthright of Englishmen — 
and may they never forget it ! — to pelt any 
man who may offer himself for the honour of 
representing them in Parliament. It is right 
that it should be so. For how unfit must 
the man be for the duties of his office — ^for 
if 


the trials that in the House of Commons he 
must undergo — if he cannot, properly and re- 
spectfully receive at the hands of an enlight- 
ened constituency any quantity of mud, any 
number of eggs or potatoes that in their wis- 
dom they may feel disposed to visit upon 
him. I should hold myself a traitor to the 
trust reposed in me, did I at this moment of 
triumph object to either your eggs or your 
potatoes.” (Very loud cheering ; with a cry 
of “ You’re the sort torus.”) “ No, gentle- 
men, I look upon eggs and potatoes as, I may 
say, the corner-stones of the Constitution.” 
(“ Three cheers for the Constitution,” roar- 
ed Rasp, and the Yellows obediently bellow- 
ed.) “ Nevertheless, permit me to say this 
much. Feeling the necessity that you should 
always exercise for yourselves the right of 
pelting your candidate with eggs and pota- 
toes — permit me to observe that 1 do not 
think the sacred cause of liberty will be en- 
dangered, that I do not believe the basis of 
the Constitution will be in the smallest de- 
gree shaken, if upon all future elections, when 
you ^all be -called upon to exercise the high 
prerogative of pelting your candidates, you 
select eggs that are sweet, and first mash 
your potatoes.” 

Laughter and loud cheers attested the rea- 
sonableness of the proposition When silence 
was restored, young Lord St. James stood 
forward. His rival, he said, was for a time 
nominally their candidate. A petition to 
the House of Commons would, however, 
speedily send him back to his proper obscuri- 
ty. His lordship was prepared to prove the 
grossest bribery 

“ The box of guineas !” — “ Who stole the 
guineas?” was shouted from the mob, and 
Tom Blast himself boldly halloed — “ Who 
stole the guineas ?” 

Doctor Gilead stept forward, “ My friends,” 
he said, “ it is true that a box of money was 
stolen — but, my friends, you will rejoice 
with me to learn that the box is recovered. 

“ Gammon !” cried Blast wildly. 

“ The thief or thieves had cast the box into 
my fish-pond ; but I have just been informed 
that on dragging the pond for carp — I, had 
given the order before I quitted home — 
the box has been found ! Three cheers, mv 
friends !” 

Blast groaned and the Blues huzzaed. 

The ceremony of chairing, was duly per- 
formed, Bright Jem witnessing the triumph 
with a heavy heart ; but Matthew Capstick, 
Esq.,M. P., (he had been duly qualified by 
Snipeton,) as he was paraded along the 
streets of Liquorish had no wish ungratified-— 
yes, there was one, a little one. It was 
merely that the late Mrs. Capstick could, for 
a very brief time, look up from her grave and 
see her elected husband as he rode ! 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


139 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Having travelled half our story — (courage, 
reader; only half!) — vve have to explain a 
few matters of the past for the better appre- 
hension of the future. Let us therefore gos- 
sip five minutes. Let us pause awhile in this 
green lane — it is scarcely half a mile from the! 
town hall of Liquorish — ere mounting Pen, 
our familiar hippogrilf, with you, sir, on the 
crupper, we take a flight, and in a thought 
descend upon the mud of London. The sweet 
breath of the season should open hearts, as it 
uncloses myriads of buds and blossoms. So 
let us sit upon this tree-trunk — this elm, fell- 
ed and lopped in December. Stripped, maim- 
ed, and overthrown, a few of its twigs are 
dotted witli green leaves ; spring still work- 
ing within it, like hope in the conquered 
brave. 

Is not this an escape from the scuffling 
and braying of immortal man, moved by the 
feelings and the guineas of an election ? 
What a very decent, quiet fellow is Brown ! 
And Jones is a civil, peaceable creature ! 
And Robinson, too, a man of gentle bearing ! 
Yet multiply the three by one, two, three 
hundred. Let there be a mob of Browns, 
Joneses, and Robinsons, and then how often 
— made up of individual decency, and quie- 
tude, and gentleness — is there a raving, roar- 
ing, bullying crowd ! The individual Adam 
sets aside his dignity, as a boxer strips for the 
fight ; and whether the thing to be seen is a 
lord mayor’s coach, fireworks, or a zany on a 
river, goose-paddled in a washing-tub, the 
sons of Adam will throng to the sight, and 
fight and scream for vantage-ground, with a 
violence that would shame any colony of 
monkeys, clawing and jabbering for stolen 
sugar-cane. Sweet then, is it to the philoso- 
pher to moralize upon the hubbub and the jost- 
ling crowd. He pities the madness of the mul- 
titude, and respects the serenity of his own 
soul : the more so, if looking from a window, 
his own toes are untrodden, and his own coat- 
tails untorn. 

And so, reader, let us breath awhile in this 
green solitude — if, indeed, it be a solitude. 
For who shall count the little eye-like flowers 
peeping at us from the hedges — looking up 
from the sward in our face, openly as loving 
innocence ? A solitude I What a world of 
grasses do we tread upon, a world so crowded 
and humming with insect citizens I If only 
one turn of the peg we would let down our 
pride — of all the heart-strings the bass and 
grumbling one — we might compare many of 
these children, fathers, and grandfathers of a 
day, ith the two-legged kings of creation, the 
biped majesties of t&eescore years and ten. 
We might watch their little runnings to arid 
from their hoards ; their painful climbings to 
the i^ery needle-point of some tall blade of 


grass ; watch them and smile, even as the 
angels, at their pleasant leisure watch and 
smile at you, Grubbings, when you go to the 
bank and add to your sweet salvation there, 
the balance : smile, as at poor Superbus, 
when climbing and climbing, he rose to great 
Gold Stick, and kept it twenty years — to an- 
jgelic computation just twenty ihrobbings of 
a fevered heart. Surely there is not an insect 
that we might not couple with an acquaint- 
ance. Here, in this little, trim sobriety, is 
our quaker friend, Placens ; and here, in this 
butterfly, tipsy with its first-day’s wings, is 
Polly, foolish Polly, who cannot consent to 
see the world, unless she sees it in her finest 
clothes. And so, looking at a pi’ece of turf, 
no bigger than a lark’s foot-stool, we may 
people it with friends and world acquaint- 
ance. 

Is this solitude 'I And the blackbird, with 
his notes of melted honey, winds and whistles 
— no. Solitude ? The jay, whose voice is 
a continual dissent, grates — no. Solitude ? 
And the household rock swims upward in the 
air, and with homeward caw, awakens busy 
thoughts of life, of the day’s cares and the 
day’s necessities. The earth has no place of 
solitude. Not a rood of the wilderness that 
is not thronged and eloquent with crowds and 
voices, communing, with the spirit of man ; 
endowed with such communion with a know- 
ledge whose double fruit is divinest hope and 
meekest humility. 

So once more to our story : once more to 
consider the doings of men. They are not to 
be thought of with less charity for this gossip 
in a green lane. Nay, try it, reader, on your 
own account. Say that you have a small 
wrong at your heart ; say, that in your bo- 
som you nurse a pet injury like a pet snake. 
Well, bring it here, away from the brick-and- 
mortar world ; see the innocent beauty spread 
around you ; the sunny heavens smiling 
protecting love upon you ; listen to the. har- 
monies breathing about you ; and then say, is 
not this immortal injury of yours a wretched 
thing, a moral fungus, of no more account 
than a mildewed toadstool ? Of course. You 
are abashed by omnipotent benevolence into 
charity ; and you forgive the wrong you have 
received from man, in your deep gratitude to 
God. 

Nevertheless, there are natures hardly sus- 
ceptible of such influence. There are folks 
who would take their smallest wrongs with 
them into Paradise. Go where they will, they 
carry with them a travelling-case of injuries. 
Do we not know Trumperly ? A very regu- 
lar man, and a most respectable shopkeeper. 
He taketh his Sabbath walk. He looketh 
round on a wide expanse. The heath is illu- 
minated with flowering furze. He stands 
upon a veritable field of cloth of gold. He is 
about to smile upon the natural splendor, 


140 


THE HISTORY OF 


when again he recollects the bad half-sove- 
reign taken ten days ago, and at the extremest 
corners of his mouth the smile dies, a death 
of suddenness. And Grizzleton ? Did he 
not travel for enjoyment, and did not some 
past, particular wrong always blot out, de- 
stroy the present beauty ? He made a j)il- 
grimage to Niagara. He was about to be 
very much rapt, astounded by its terrible gran- 
deur, when the spray fell upon his new hat, 
and he could not but groan for the cotton um- 
brella, price one dollar, that he had lost at 
New York. And in this way do we often 
shadow present pleasures with the thought 
of some sort of counterfeit money — some sort 
of departed umbrella. 

And wrongs, naturally enough, bring us 
back to Ebenezer Snipeton. It was his trade 
to lend money ; nevertheless, he was not a 
man who suffered business to entirely absorb 
his pleasure. Hence, when he discovered 
that the patriot who, purely for the sake of 
his country, was to snatch Liquorish from 
young St. James, thought better of the rash- 
ness, refusing at the last moment to save the 
nation — he, Ebenezer, treated himself to a 
costly but delicious enjoyment. And he — it 
was thus he pondered — he could afford it. 
He was a thrifty, saving man. He dallied 
not with common temptations. He wasted 
no money upon luxurious housekeeping ; and 
for his wife, no nun ever spent less with the 
milliner. He took care of that. Well, as 
the homely proverb goes, it is a poor heart 
that never rejoices ; and therefore Ebenezer 
Snipeton, temperate, self-denying in all other 
expensive enjoyments, was resolved for once 
in his days, to purchase for himself a hand- 
some piece of revenge. Determined upon a 
treat, he cared not for its costs. He would 
carry Capstick into parliament, though in a 
chariot of solid gold. The young lord had 
dared to look upon Clarissa. The creature, 
a part of himself, whose youth and beauty, 
belonging to him, seemed to him a better as- 
surance against decay and death. He had 
bought her for his lawful wife, and holy- 
church had written the receipt. Nevertheless, 
that smooth-faced smiling lor(^ — he, too, to 
whom the good old husband in the embracing 
philanthropy of a hundred per cent., had lent 
ready gold, to be paid back, post-obit fashion, 
on a father’s coffin-lid — he, the young, hand- 
some, profligate St. James, with no more rev- 
erence for the sanctity of marriage than has 
a school-boy for an orchard fence, he — it was 
plain — would carry off that mated bird I 
This one thought parched the old man as with 
a fever : waking, it consumed him ; and he 
would start from his sleep, as though — such 
was his worded fancy — an adder stirred in his 
night-cap. Therefore he would not stint him- 
self in his feast of vengeance. And therefore 
the freeholders were bought at their own price 


— and they proved how dearly they valued a 
vote — and Capstick, the muffin-maker, con- 
quered the son of a marquis. People averred 
that the new member owed his elevation to 
the fiercest luiilice ; but he, misanthrope as 
he was, had now and then his holiday notions 
of humanity, and did not to the full believe 
the scandal. No ; though he did not confess 
it to himself, it was plain that his neighbors 
— at least the more thoughtful of them — be- 
lieved in his powers of statesmanship ; it was 
their wish, their one hope that he should repre- 
sent them ; and though he himself cared not 
a straw for the honor, it would have seemed 
ungracious to refuse. And so he quitted the 
Tub, and Bright Jem went heavily along with 
him to London. “ I shall be quite the simple 
Roman in. this business,” said Capstick. “ I 
feel myself very like Cincinnatus taken from 
turnips.” “ Without goin’ to that parliament, 
I only wish you was well among ’em agin,” 
interrupted Jem. “And therefore,” continued 
the senator, “ I shall lodge humbly.” And 
Capstick kept his word ; for he hired a three- 
pair floor and an attic in Long Acre ; and 
having purchased a frame and glazed copy of 
Magna Charta to hang over the chimney- 
piece, he began very deeply to consider his 
manifold duties as a member of parliament. 

With varying feelings St. Giles had watch- 
ed the progress of the election. He had — it 
was his duty — shouted and bellowed for St. 
James. Nevertheless, the final prosperity of 
the muffin man, his early benefactor, scarcely 
displeased him. Again, too, he thought that, 
should the young lord refuse to employ him 
— for he had still been baulked in his endea- 
vor to see St. James — the new member for 
Liquorish would need new attendants to illus- 
trate his dignity. ,And Bright Jem had, of 
course, revealed to Capstick all the transport’s 
story ; for the felon had made a clean breast 
of his mystery to Jem, on their way to Kingf 
cup, the schoolmaster. And so, the* election 
revel over, with a lightened heart St. Giles 
set out for London. Should St. James fail 
him, he was sure of Capstick. 

If human misery demand human sympathy, 
the condition of Tom Blast is not to be des- 
pised. It is our tr^iist that the reader follow- 
ed him when, oppressed by the weight of 
gold, he tripped and staggered from the Olivo 
Branch, and gasped and sweated as he reach- 
ed the field, wherein he solaced his fatigue 
with the secret thought of future fortune 
bringing future reformation. It was with this 
strengthening impulse that he flung the iron 
box, gold-crammed, into the middle of a pond. 
There it lay, like one of Solomon’s brazen 
kettles, in the sea, containing a tremendous 
genius — an all-potent magician, when once 
released to work among men. And Tom 
would go to ‘London, and in a few days when 
Liquorish had subsided from its patriotic in- 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


141 


toxication to its old sobriety, he would return 
with some trusty fellow-laborer in the world’s 
hard ways, and angle for the box. Unhappy, 
- fated Blast ! He had Hung his gold-fish into 
Doctor Gilead’s pond. He had enriched the 
rector’s waters with uncounted guineas. 
Next, of course, to “ fishpools in Heshbon,” 
the doctor loved that pond, for it contained 
carp of astonishing size and intelligence. Of- i 
ten would the doctor seek the waters, and 
whilst feeding their tenants — tenants- at-will 
— delight himself with their docility and di- 
mensions. It was pretty, now to contemplate 
them in the pond, and now to fancy them in 
the dish. The doctor knew the value, the 
pleasure of exercising the imagination; and 
thus made his carp equally ministrant to his 
immortal and his abdominal powers. Well, 
the pond was to be dragged for the election 
dinner, and the net becoming entangled with 
the box — but the doctor has already revealed 
the happy accident. Tom Blast felt himself 
a blighted man. It was always his way. 
Any other thief would have hidden the goods 
in any other pond : but somehow or the other, 
the clergy had always been his misfortune. 
It was no use to struggle with fate ; he was 
doomed to bad luck. And when, too, he had 
made up his mind to such a quiet, comfortable 
life ; when he had resolved upon respectability 
and an honest course ; he felt his heart soften- 
ed — it was too bad. Nothing was left for him 
but to return to the thief’s wide home, Lon- 
don. He, poor fellow ! could have subdued his 
desires to live even at Liquorish; for tobacco 
and gin were there ; but, he knew it, in such 
a place he must starve. With the loss of the 
box came a quickened recollection of the loss 
of Jingo. Where could the child have wander- 
ed ? Blast had learned that Tangle had been 
despoiled of his purse on the night of the great- 
er robbery. Now, though the paternal heart 
was pleased to believe that such theft was the 
work of the boy, the father was nevertheless 
saddened at the child’s disobedience. If it 
was the boy’s duty to rob, it was no less his 
duty to bring the stolen goods to his alfec- 
tionate parent. In prosperity the human heart 
is less sensible of slight. Blast, whilst the 
believed possessor of countless guineas, 
scarcely thought of his son ; but, stript of 
his wealth, his thoughts, it was very natu- 
ral, did turn to his truant child and the purse 
he had stolen. 

And now, reader, leave we the borough of 
Liquorish. Its street is silent, and save that 
certain of its dwellers have bought new Sun- 
day coats and Sunday gowns — save that here 
and there in good man’s house a new clock, 
with moralizing tick to human life, gives 
voice to silent time — save that on certain 
shelves new painted crockery illustrates at 
once the vanity and fragility of human hopes. 


no man would dream that a member of parlia- 
ment had within a few hours been manufac- 
tured in that dull abiding-place. 

And now, reader, with one drop of ink, we 
are again in London. Ha ! we have descend- 
ed in St. James’s Square. The morning is 
very beautiful ; and there, at the marquis’s 
door, smiling in the sun, is an old acquaint- 
ance, Peter Crossbone, apothecary; the learn- 
ed, disappointed man ; for Crossbone had 
looked upon the escape of St. James from 
Dovesnest as an especial misfortune. All 
his professional days he had yearned for what 
he called distinguished practice. We doubt 
whether he would not have thought the tower 
lions, being crown property, most important 
patients. For some time he had pondered on 
the policy of visiting young St. James, the 
wounded phoenix that had flown from his 
hands. His will was good ; all he wanted 
was a decent excuse for the intrusion ; and 
at length fortune blessed him. He felt cer- 
tain of the young lord’s condescending notice, 
if he, the village apothecary, could show him- 
self of service to him. The marquis’s father 
was much persecuted by that luxurious scor- 
pion, the gout, that epicurean feeder on the 
best fed. Now Crossbone had, in his own 
opinion, a specific cure for the torment ; but 
he much doubted whether science would be his 
best recommendation to the young heir. No ; 
he wanted faith in such an intercessor. And 
thus, with his brain in a pitch-black fog, he 
meditated, and saw no way. And now he is 
surrounded by mist, and now is he in a blaze 
of light. And what has broken through the 
gloom, and dawned a sudden day? That 
luminous concentration, that world of elo- 
quent light— for how it talks !— a woman’s eye. 

kSuddenly Crossbone remembered a certain 
look of Clarissa. And that look was instantly 
a light to him that made all clear. That look 
showed the jealousy of the husband ; the 
passion of the wife. Snipeton was a tyrant, 
and Clarissa a victim. And then compassion 
entered the heart of Crossbone, and did a lit- 
tle soften it. Yes ; it would be a humane 
deed to assist the poor wife, and at the same 
time so delicious to delight his lordship. And 
then he — Crossbone knew it — he himself was 
so fit for the gay world. He was born, he 
would say, for the stones of London, and there- 
fore hated the clay of the country. 

Reader, as you turned the present leaf, 
Crossbone knocked at the door, and stood with 
an uneasy smile upon his face, awaiting the 
porter, who, with a fine, critical ear for 
knocks, knew it could be nobody, and treated 
the nobody accordingly ; that is, made the no- 
body wait. In due season. Crossbone and the 
porter stood face to face. “ Is Lord St. James 
within ?” And Crossbone tried to look the 
easy, town man. It would not do. Had he 


142 


THE HISTORY OF 


been a haystack, the porter would as readily 
have known the country growth. 

“Lordship within?” grunted the porter. 
“ Don’t know.” * 

But Mr. Crossbone knew better. It was 
his boast : he knew life ; and therefore always 
paved its little shabby passages with silver ; 
other passages require gold, and only for that 
reason are not thought so shabby. True, 
therefore, to his principles, Mr. Crossbone 
sneaked a card and a dollar into the porter’s 
hand. 

“Ralph, take this card to his lordship. 
Good deal bothered, all of us, just now,” add- 
ed the porter. 

“ Good deal,” corroborated Ralph, the son 
of Gum, and looking up and down at the 
apothecary, he went his way. Quick was 
his return ; and with respecti'ul voice he beg- 
ged the gentleman to follow him. 

“We have met before, Mr. Crossbone,” 
said St. James, and a shadow crossed his face. 
“I well remember.” 

“ No doubt, my lord. It was my happiness 
to employ my poor skill in a case of great 
danger. Need I say how much I am reward- 
ed by your lordship’s present health ?” 

“ Humph ! 1 have been worse beaten since 
then,” said the young lord, and he bit his lip. 
He then with a gay air continued ; “ Mr. 
Snipeton is, I believe, your patient ?” 

“ Bless your heart, my lord — that is, I beg 
your pardon,” — for Crossbone felt the famili- 
arity of the benison — “ Mr. Snipeton is no 
man’s patient. King Charles of Charing 
Cross — saving his majesty’s presence — has 
just as much need of the faculty. When peo- 
ple, my lord, have no feelings they have little 
.sickness; that’s a discovery I’ve made, my 
lord, and old Snipeton bears it out. Now his 
wife — ha ! that’s a flower.” 

“ Tender and beautiful,” cried St. James, 
v^ith animation. “ And her health, Mr. Cross- 
bone ?” 

“ Delicate, my lord ; delicate as a bird of 
paradise. I’ve often said it, she wasn’t made 
for this world ; it’s too coarse and dirty. 
However, she’ll not be long out of her proper 
place. No ; she’s dying fast.” 

Dying !” exclaimed St. James. “ Dying ! 
Impossible ! Dying with what ?” 

“ A more common malady than’s thought 
of, my lord,” answered Cros.sbone. He then 
advanced a step, and projecting the third fin- 
ger of the left hand, with knowing look ob- 
served — “Ring-worm, my lord.” 

“ Ha !” cried St. James, airily. “ Ring- 
worm ! Is that indeed so fatal ?” 

“ When, my lord, it fixes on the marriage 
finger of the young and beautiful wife of an 
old and ugly miser, it’s mortal, my lord — 
mortal, it does so affect, so ossify the heart. 
I’ve seen many cases.” added Crossbone em- 


phatically, resolved to make the most of cer- 
tainly a very peculiar practice. 

“ And there is no remedy ?” asked St. 
James, as he placed his palms together and 
looked keenly in the apothecary’s face. 

“ Why, I’ve known the worm removed with 
great success ; that is,” said the apothecary, 
returning the look, “ when the patient has 
had every confidence in the practitioner.” 

“ Mr. Crossbone,” cried St. James, “ you 
are a man of the world ?” 

“ My lord,” answered the apothecary, with 
a thanksgiving bow, “ I am.” 

Now, when a man pays a man this praise, 
it happens, say six times out of nine, that the 
compliment really means this much: “You are 
a man of the world ; that is, you are a shrewd 
fellow who know all the by-ways and turnings 
of life : who know that wha.t is called a 
wrong, a shabbiness, in the pulpit or in the 
dining-room (before company,) is nevertheless 
not a wrong not a shabbiness when to be im- 
dertaken for a man’fe especial interest. They 
are matters to be much abused, until required : 
to shake the head and make mouths at, until 
deemed indispensable to our health to swal- 
low.” To praise a man for knowing the 
world, is often to commend Jiim only for his 
knowledge of its dirty lanes and crooked al- 
leys. Any fool knows the broad paths — the 
squares of life. 

And Mr. Crossbone — sagacious person ! — 
took the lord’s compliment in its intended 
sense. He already felt that he was about to 
be entrusted with a secret, a mission, that 
might test the lofty knowledge for which he 
was extolled. Therefore, to clench his lord- 
ship’s confidence, the apothecary added, “ I am, 
my lord, a man of the world. There are two 
golden rules of life ; I have ever studied 
them.” 

“ And these are ?” — asked St. James, draw- 
ing him on. 

“ These are, to keep your eyes open and 
your mouth shut. Your lordship may com- 
mand me.” 

“ Mr. Crossbone” — and St. James motion- 
ing the apothecary to a chair, seated himself 
for serious consultation — “ Mr. Crossbone, 
this Snipeton has deeply injured me.” 

, “ I believe him capable of anything, my 
lord. Sorry am I to say it,” said Crossbone, 
blithely. 

“ He has wounded the dignity of my fami- 
ly. He has wrested from us the borough of 
Liquorish”~Crossbone looked wondrous dis- 
gust at the enormity “ a borough that has 
been ours, aye, since the Conquest.” 

“No doubt,” said Crossbone. “ He might 
as well have stolen the family plate.” 

“ Just so. Now, Mr. Crossbone, I do not 
I pretend to be a whit better than the ordinary 
I run of my fellow^creatures. I must therefor® 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


14b 


confess ’t would give me some pleasure to be 
revenged of tins money-seller.” 

“ Situated as you are, my lord ; wounded 
as you must be in a most patriotic part, I do 
not perceive how your lordship can, as a no- 
bleman and a gentleman, do less than take 
revenge. It is a duty- you owe your station 
— a duty due to society, for whose better 
example noblemen were made. Revenge, my 
lord !” cried Crossbone, with a look of devo- 
tion. 

“ The sweeter still the better,” said St. 
James. 

“ Right, my lord ; very right. Revenge is 
a magnificent passion, and not to be meddled 
with in the spirit of a chandler. No trumpery 
ha’porths of it — ’t would be unworthy of a 
nobleman.” 

“ Mr. CroSsbone, you are a man of great 
intelligence. A man who ought not to vege- 
tate in the country with dandelion and pim- 
pernel. No, sir : you must be fixed in Lon- 
don. A genius like yours, Mr. Crossbone, is 
cast away upon bumpkins. We shall yet see 
you with a gold cane, in your own carriage, 
Mr. Crossbone.” 

And with these words. Lord St. James 
gently pressed the tips of Crossbone’s fingers. 
The apothecary was wholly subdued by the 
condescension of his lordship. He sat in a 
golden cloud, smiling, and looking bashfully 
grateful. And then his eyes trembled with 
emotion, and he felt that he should very much 
like to acknowledge upon his knees the honor 
unworthily conferred upon him. It would 
have much comforted him to kneel ; neverthe- 
less, with heroic self-denial he kept his seat ; 
and at length in a faint voice said — “ It isn’t 
for me, your lordship, to speak of my poor 
merits ; your lordship knows best. But this I 
must say, my lord ; I do think I have looked 
after the weeds of the world quite long enough. 
I own, it is my own ambition to cultivate the 
lilies.” 

“ I understand, Mr. Crossbone ! Well, I 
don’t know that even the court may not be 
open to you.” 

The vision was too much for the apothe- 
cary. He sighed, as though suddenly op- 
pressed by a burthen of delight. In fancy, 
he already had his fingers on a royal pulse, 
whose harmonious throbbings communica- 
ting with his own ennobled anatomy, sweetly 
troubled his beating heart. However, with 
the will of a strong man he put down the emo- 
tion, and returned to his lordship’s business. 

“ You spoke of revenge, my lord ? Upon 
that wealthy wretch, Snipeton ? May I ask 
what sort of revenge your lordship desires to 
take ?” 

“ Faith ! Mr. Crossbone, my revenge is 
like Shylock’s. I’d take it,” said the young 
gentleman, with a smile of significant bitter- 
ness — “ I’d take it ‘ nearest his heart.’ ” 


“Yes, I understand; perfectly, my lord,” 
said Crossbone with new gaiety. “The 
flesh of his flesh, eh ? His wife ?” 

“ His wife,” cried St. James passionately. 

“ Excellent, my lord ! Excellent ! Ha ! 
ha ! ha !” And the apothecary could not re- 
sist the spirit of laughter that tickled him ; 
it was so droll to imagine a man — especially 
an old man — despoiled of his wife. “ She 
would be sweet revenge,” cried Crossbone, 
rubbing his hands with an implied relish. 

“ And practicable, eh ?” cried St. James. 
Crossbone smiled again, and rubbed his hands 
with renewed pleasure, nodding the while. 
“ He has carried her from Dovesnest ; buried 
her somew'here ; for this much I know — she 
is not at his house in the city.” 

“ I know all, my lord ; all. I have receiv- 
ed a letter — here it is” — and Crossbone gave 
the missive to St.. James ; “ you see, he 
writes me that she is ill — and as he has great 
faith in my knowledge — for there is no man 
without some good point, let’s hope that — in 
my knowledge of her constitution, he desires 
me to come and see her. I’ve arrived this 
very morning in London. I was going direct 
to him ; but — surely there’s providence in it, 
my lord — but something told me to come and 
see you first.” 

“ And I am delighted,” said St. James, 
“ that you gave ear to the good genius. You’ll 
assist me ?” 

“ My lord,” said Crossbone solemnly, “ I 
have, I hope, a proper respect for the rights 
of birth and the institutions of my country. 
And I have always, my lord, considered poli- 
tics as nothing more than enlarged morals.” 

“ Thank you for the apophthegm” — said 
the flattering St. James. “ May I use it in 
parliament when — I get there ?” 

“ Oh, my lord !” simpered Crossbone, and 
continued. “ Enlarged morals. Now, this 
man Snipeton, in opposing your lordship for 
Liquorish, in bringing in a muffin-maker over 
your noble head — ^ali the town is ringing wfith 
it — has, I conceive, violated wholesale mor- 
ality, and should be punished accordingly. 
But how punished,? You can’t touch him 
through his money. No ; ’t is a coat of mail. 
He’s what I call a golden crocodile, my lord, 
with but one tender place — and that ’s his 
wife. Then strike him there, and you pun- 
ish him for his presumption, and revenge the 
disgrace he has put upon your family.” , 

“ Exactly,” said St. James, a little impa- 
tient of the apothecary’s morals. “ But, my 
good sir, do you know where the lady is ?” 

“No. But I shall order her wherever 
may be most convenient. Would the air of 
Bath suit you ?” asked the apothecary with' 
a leer. 

“Excellently — nothing could be better,”' 
said St. James. 

“ Bath be it, then. And she must go alone ; 


144 


THE HISTORY OF 


that is, without that Mrs. Wilton. I don’t 
like that woman. There’s a cold watchful- 
ness about her that we can do without, my 
lord.” 

“ But how separate them?” asked St. James. 

“Leave that to me. Well handled, no- 
thing cuts like a sharp lie ; it goes at once 
through heart-strings.” St. James passed 
his hand across his face : he felt his blood 
had mounted there. “ It has often separated 
flesh of flesh and bone of bone, and may easily' 
part mistress and servant. Talking of ser- 
vants, have you no trusty fellow to go be- 
tween us, my lord ?” 

Even as the apothecary spoke, Ralph 
brought in a card the card given by St. 
James to St. Giles. The returned transport 
awaited in the hall the command of his patron. 

“ Nothing could be more fortunate,” cried 
St. James. “ Ralph, tell the man who brings 
this, to attend this gentleman and take his 
orders. To-morrow I will see him myself.” 

“ And to-morrow, my lord,” said the apothe- 
cary, with new courage holding forth his 
hand, “ to-morrow you shall hear from me.” 

“To-morrow,” said St. James. 

“ To-morrow ; heaven be with your lord- 
ship and with this hope the apothecary de- 
parted. 

St. James hastily paced the room. The 
walls were hung with mirrors. 

The young gentleman — was it a habit ? — 
still walked with his hand to his face. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

When Snipeton turned his horse’s head 
from Dovesnest — for the which incident we 
must send back the reader some dozen chap- 
■ters — he resolved, as he rode, upon closing 
his accounts with the world, that freed from 
the cares of money, he might cherish and 
protect his youthful, blooming partner. Ar- 
rived in London, seated at his books in St. 
Mary Axe, the resolution was strengthened 
by the contemplation of his balance against 
men. He had more than enough, and would 
enjoy life in good earnest. Why should he 
toil like a slave for gold-dust, and never know 
the blessings of the boon ? No : he would 
close his accounts, and open wide his heart. 
And Snipeton was sincere in this high re- 
solve. For a whole night, waking and dream- 
ing, he was fixed in it ; and the next morning 
the uxorious apostate felt back to his first 
creed of money-bags. Fortune is a woman, 
and therefore where she blindly loves — (and 
what Bottoms and Calibans she does em- 
brace and fondle !) — is not to be put aside 
by slight or ill-usage. All his life had For- 
tune doted upon Snipeton, hugging him the 
closer as she carried him up — and he should 


not leave her. And to this end did Fortune 
bribe back her renegade with a lumping bar- 
gain. A young gentleman — a very young 
gentleman — desired for so much ready metal, 
^o put his land upon parchment, ajid that 
young gentleman did Fortune take by the 
hand, and, smiling ruin, lead him to St. Mary 
Axe. In a few minutes was Snipeton wooed 
and won again ; for to say the truth his weak- 
ness was a mortgage. The written parch- 
ment, like charmed characters, conjured him ; 
put imagination into that dry husk of a man. 
He would look upon the deed as upon a land 
of protnise. He would see in the smallest 
pen-marks giant oaks, with the might of 
navies waiting in them ; and from the sheep- 
skin would feel the nimble air of Arcady. 
There it lay, a beautiful bit of . God’s earth — • 
a sweet morsel of creation — conjured and 
conveyed into a few black syllables. 

And so, Snipeton made his peace with his 
first wife Fortune, and then betliought him 
of his second spouse, Clarissa. That he 
might duly attend to both, he would remove 
his second mate from Dovesnest. There 
were double reasons for the motion ; for the 
haven of wedded bliss was known to the 
profligate St. James ; who, unmindl'ul of the 
sweetest obligation money at large usance 
ought to confer upon the human heart, dared 
to accost his creditor’s wife. Let Dovesnest 
henceforth be a place for owls and foxes, 
Clarissa should bring happiness within an 
hour’s ride of St. Mary Axe. The thought 
was so good, sent such large content to old 
Snipeton’s heart, that with no delay it was 
carried out, and ere she well had time to 
weep a farewell to her favorite roses, Mrs. 
Snipeton left Dovesnest to the spiders. 

Was it a wise change, this ? Had Snipe- 
ton healthy eyes ; oi’idid avarice, that jaun- 
dice of the soul, so blear his vision, that he 
saw not in the thin, discolored features of the 
wife of his bosom, aught to twitch a hus- 
band’s heart ? She never complained. — 
Besides, once or twice he had questioned her; 
and she was not ill. No, well, quite well ; 
and — this too he had asked — very happy. 
Nevertheless, it would the better satisfy him 
if Crossbone could see her. Crossbone knew 
her constitution, and — and so that meek and 
knowing man was summoned to London. 

In a green, sequestered nook, half-way be- 
tween Hampstead and Kilburn, embowered 
in the middle of a garden, was a small cot- 
tage ; so hidden, that oft the traveller passed, 
unheeding it. In this cottage was Clarissa, 
To this retreat would her husband amble 
every day from St. Mary Axe, quitting his 
money temple for the treasure of his fireside, 
his pale and placid wife; and resolved to 
think himself blessed at both places. 

“ Mr. Snipeton is late to-day,” said Mrs. 
Wilton, the mother housekeeper. 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


145 


“ He will come,” replied Clarissa, in the 
tone of one resigned to a daily care. “ He 
will come, mother.” 

Mrs. Wilton looked with appealing tender- 
ness in her daughter’s lace ; and in a low, 
calm voice, controlling her heart as she spoke, 
slie said — “ This must not be : do not repeat 
that w’ord — not even when we ai’e alone. 
(Some day it may betray me to your husband, 
and then” 

“ What then ?” asked Clarissa. 

“We should be parted; for ever — for 
ever,” cried the woman, and with the thought 
she burst into tears. 

“ Not so. Nothing parts us ; nothing but 
the kindness of death,” said (^larissa. “And 
death is kind, at least” 

“At least, my child, the world with you is 
too young to think it so.” 

“ Old, old and faded,” said Clarissa. “ The 
spirit of youtli is departed. I look at all 
things with dim and weary eyes.” 

“ And yet, my child, there is a sanctity in 
suffering, when strongly, meekly borne. Our 
duty, though set about by thorns, may still 
be made a statf, supporting even while it tor- 
tures. Cast it away, and like the prophet’s 
wand, it changes to a snake. God and my 
own heart know 1 speak no idle thoughts ; I 
speak a bitter truth, bitterly acknowledged.” 

“And duty shall support me on this weary 
pilgrimage,” said Clarissa. Then taking her 
mother’s hand, and feebly smiling, she added, 
“ Surely, it can be no sin to wish such travel 
short : or if it be, I still must wish — I can- 
not help it.” 

“ Time, time, my child, is the sure qoncili- 
ator. You will live to wonder at and bless 
his goodness.” 

“ You say so — it may be,” said Clarissa, 
with a lightened look, “ at least I’ll hope it.” 
And then both smiled gaily — wanly ; for both 
felt the deceit they strove to act but could not 
carry through. Words, words of comforting, 
of hope, were uttered, but they fell coldly, 
hollowly ; for the spirit of truth was not in 
them. They were things of the tongue, pas- 
sionless, mechanical ; the voice without the 
soul. At this moment, old Dorothy Vale en- 
tered the room ; and she was welcome : even 
though sbe announced the coming of the 
master of the house. 

“ Master ’s coming up the garden,” said 
Dorothy, each hand rubbing an arm crossed 
before her. “ Somebody ’s with him.” 

“ A .stranger here ! Who can it be ?” 
cried Clarissa. 

“ Don’t say he’s a stranger ; don’t say he 
isn’t ; can only see a somebody,” answered 
Dorothy, in whom no show whatever of this 
world of shows could have awakened a mo- 
mentary curiosity. Her inheritance, as one 
of Eve’s daughters, was this beautiful earth, 
sky-roofed ; yet was it no more to her than 


a huge deal box, pierced with air-holes. A 
place to eat, drink, sleep, and hang up her 
bonnet in. 

Another minute, and Snipeton entered the 
room. The husband had returned to the 
haven of his hopes, and was resolved that the 
world — then comprised in the single person 
of Peter Crossbone, who followed close at 
the he'els of his host — should bear witness to 
his exceeding happiness ; to the robust de- 
light that, as he crossed his threshold, instant- 
ly possessed him : for with an anxious look 
of joy, he strode up to his wife, and suddenly 
taking her cheeks between both his hands, 
pursed out her lips, and then vigorously kiss- 
ed them. He was so happy, he could not, 
would not feel his wife shrink at his touch — 
could not, would not see her white face flush 
as with sudden resentment, and then subside 
into pale endurance. No : the husband was 
resolved upon displaying to the world his ex- 
ceeding happiness, and would not be thwart- 
ed in his show of bliss, by trifles. He merely 
said, still dallying with his felicity — “ Never 
mind Crossbone ; he’s nobody ; a family man 
— has been married and that’s all the same.” 
Now Crossbone, in his wayward heart, felt 
tempted to dispute such position ; it was not 
all the same — to him. Nevertheless, he 
would not be captious. It was a poor, an 
ignorant opinion, and therefore his host and 
customer should have the free enjoyment 
of it. 

“ Mrs. Snipeton,” said the apothecary, 
“ though I do not feel it professional to hope 
that anybody is well, /nevertheless in your 
case, I do hope that — well, well, I see ; a 
little pale, but never fear it — we’ll bring the 
roses out again. In a little while, and you’ll 
bloom like a bough-pot.” 

“To be sure she will,” said Snipeton. “I 
thought of buying her a pretty little horse : 
just a quiet thing” — 

“ Nothing could be better — perhaps. As I 
often say, horse-flesh is the thing for weak 
stomachs, I may say as much to you as a 
friend, Mr, Snipeton ; folks often go to the 
doctor’s, when they should go to the stable. 
Xes, .yes — horse exercise and change of 
air” — 

“ We’ll talk of it after dinner,” said Snipe- 
ton, suddenly wincing ; for his heart could not 
endure the thought of separation. Business 
and love were delightful when united ; they 
gave a zest to each other ; but certainly — at 
least in the case of Snipeton — were not to be 
tasted alone. Granted that he sat in a gol- 
den shower in St. Mary Axe ; how should he 
enjoy the luck falling direct from heaven 
upon him, if his wife — that flower of his exist- 
ence — was transplanted to a distai^t soil ? 
Would not certain bees and butterflies hum 
and flutter round that human blossom? 
Again, if he himself tended the pretty patients 


146 


THE HISTORY OF 


would not ruin — taking certain advantage of j 
the master’s absence — post itself at his door- 
step ? Doating husband — devoted man of 
money ! His heart-strings tore him one way 
— his purse-strings another. “ We’ll talk of 
it after dinner,” he repeated. “ And, Master 
Crossbone, we’ll have a bottle of excellent 
wine.” In some matters Crossbone was the 
most compliant of men : and wine was one 
that, offered cost-free, never found him im- 
placable. And, the truth is, Snipeton know- 
ing this, hoped that the wine might contain 
arguments potent over the doctor’s opinions. 
After one bottle, nay two, it was not impos- 
sible that Crossbone might reconsider his 
judgment. The air of Hampstead might be 
thought the best of airs for Clarissa. Wine 
does wonders ! 

The dinner was served. Crossbone was 
eloquent. “ After your labors in town, Mr. 
Snipeton, you must find it particularly de- 
lightful,” — he said, — “ particularly so, to 
come home to Mrs. Snipeton,” — the husband 
smiled at his wife — “ and dine off your own 
greens. One’s own vegetables is what I 
consider the purest and highest enjoyment of 
the country. Of course, too, you keep 
pigs ?” 

^nipeton had prepared himself for a com- 
pliment on his connubial happiness ; and 
therefore suffered a wrenching of the spirit 
when called upon to speak to his cabbages. 
With a strong will, he waived the subject ; 
and merely answered, “We do not keep 
pigs.” 

“ That’s a pity : but all in good time. For 
it’s hardly possible to imagine a prettier place 
for pigs. .Nothing like growing one’s own 
bacon. But then I always like dumb things 
about me. And, Mr. Snipeton, after your 
work in town, you can’t think how ’twould 
unbend your mind — how you might rest your- 
self, as I may say, on a few pigs. It’s beau- 
tiful to watch ’em day by day ; to see ’em 
growing and unfolding their fat like lilies; 
to make ’em your acquaintance, as it were, 
from the time they come into the world to the 
time they’re hung up in your kitchen. In 
this way you seem to eat ’em a hundred times 
over. However, pigs are matters that I must 
not trust myself to talk about.” 

“ Why not ?” asked Snipeton with a pork- 
er-like grunt. “Why not?” 

“ Dear Mrs. Crossbone ! Well she was a 
woman!” (It was in truth. Crossbone’s 
primest consolation to know that she was a 
woman.) “ Our taste in every thing was 
just alike. In every thing.” 

“Pigs included?” asked Snipeton, with 
something like a sneer. 

But Crossbone was too much stirred by 
dearest memories to mark it. He merely 
answered, “Pigs included.” After a. pause. 
“ However, I must renounce the sweeter 


j pleasures of the country. Fate cJls me tc 
London.” 

“ It delights me to liear it, Mr. Crossbone , 
for we shall then be so near to one another,” 
cried Snipeton. “ Charming news this, isn’t 
it, Clary ?” And the old husband chucked 
his wife’s chin, and would smile in her pale, 
unsmiling face. 

“ Well, as an old friend, Mr. Snipeton, 1 
may perhaps make no difference with you. 
Otherwise, my practice promises to be con- 
fined to royalty. To royalty, Mr. Snipe- 
ton. Yes ; I was sure of it, though I never 
condescend to name my hopes — but I knew 
that I should not be lost all my life among 
the weeds of |he world. Reputation, Mr. 
Snipeton, may be buried, like a potato ; but, 
sir, like a potato” — and Crossbone, tickled by 
the felicity of the smile, was rather loud in 
its utterance — “ like a potato, it will shoot 
and show itself.” 

“ And yours has come up, eh ? Well I’m 
very glad to hear it,” said Snipeton, honestly, 
“ because you’ll be in London. Your know- 
ledge of Clarissa’s constitution is a greaf 
comfort to me.” 

“ I have studied it, Mr. Snipeton ; studied 
it as a botanist would study some strange 
and beautiful flower. It is a very peculiar 
constitution — very peculiar.” The dinner 
being over, Clarissa rose. 

“ You’ll not leave us yet, love ?” cried 
Snipeton, taking his wife’s hand, and trying 
to look into her eyes that — wayward eyes ! 
— would not meet the old man’s devouring 
stare. 

“ Pray excuse me,” said Clarissa, with a 
politeness keen enough to cut a husband’s 
heart-strings. “ I have some orders — direc- 
tions — for Mrs. Wilton. You must excuse 
me.” 

“ That’s a treasure, Crossbone !” exclaim- 
ed Snipeton with a laborious burst of affec- 
tion, as Clarissa left the room. “ A diamond 
of a woman ! A treasure for an emperor !” 

“ Don’t — don’t” — cried Crossbone, hur- 
riedly emptying his glass. 

“ I said a treasure,” repeated the impas- 
sioned husband, striking the table. Cross- 
bone shook his head. “What,” cried Snipe- 
ton, knitting his brow, “ you question it ? 
Befiue me — her husband ?” 

“ Pray understand me, dear sir,” said 
Crossbone, tranquilly filling his glass. “ Mrs. 
Snipeton is a treasure. She’d have been a 
jewel — a pearl of a woman, sir, in the crown 
of King Solomon : and that’s the worst of it.” 

“ The worst of it !” echoed Snipeton. 

“ In this world, my good friend, if 'a man 
knew what he was about, he’d set his heart 
upon nothing.” The apothecary drained his 
glass. “ Looking, sir, as a moralist and a 
philosopher, at what the worth of this world 
■ at the best is made of, — what is it, but a large 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


147 


soap and water bubble blown by fate ? It 
shines a minute” — here the moralist and 
philosopher raised his wine to his eye, con- 
ternplatinor its ruby brightness — “ and where 
is it ?” Saying this, Crossbone swallowed 
the wine : a fine practical comment on his 
very fine philosophy. “ I ask where is it ?” 

“ Very true,” observed Sriipeton, taking 
truth as coolly as though he was used to it. 
“ Very true ; nervertheless” — 

“ Mr. Snipeton, my good friend,” cried 
Crossbone — his hand lovingly round the neck 
of the decanter — “ Mr. Snipeton, he is the 
wisest man who in this world loves nothing. 
It’s much the safest. Did you ever hear of 
the river Styx ?” 

“ Humph ! I can’t say,” growled Snipeton. 
“ Is it salt or fresh ?” 

“ One dip in it makes a man invulnerable 
' to all things ; stones, arrows, bludgeons, 
swords, bullets, cannon-balls.” 

“ ’Twould save a good deal in regimentals 
if the soldiers might bathe there,” said Snipe- 
ton, grinning grimly. 

“ So much for Styx upon the outward 
man,” cried Crossbone : “ but I have often 
thought ’(would be a capital thing, if people 
could take it inwardly ; if they could drink 
Styx.” 

“ Like the Bath waters,” suggested Snipe- 
ton. 

“ Exactly so. A course or two, and the 
interior of a man would then be insensible of 
t foolish weakness,” said Crossbone. 

“ You’d never get the women to drink it,” 
remarked Snipeton, very gravely. 

“ ’Twould not be necessary, if man, the 
nobler animal — for as Mrs. Snipeton is not 
here, we can talk like philosophers” — Snipe- 
ton grunted — “ if man, the nobler animal, for 
we know he is, though it would not be right 
perhaps to say as much before the petticoats, 
— if man could make his own heart invulne- 
rable, why, as for woman, she might be as 
weak and as foolish as she pleased; which, 
you must allow, is granting her much, Mr. 
Snipeton.” And here the apothecary would 
have laughed very jovially, but his host look- 
ed grave, sad. 

“ It seems, Mr. Crossbone, you are no great 
friend to the women,” said Snipeton. “Yet 
you must allow, we owe them much.” 

“ Humph !” cried Crossbone, in a prolong- 
ed note. He then hastily filled his glass : as 
hastily emptied it. 

“You seem to dispute the debt?” said 
Snipeton, gallantly returning to the charge. 

“ Look here, Mr. Snipeton,” cried Cross- 
bone with the air of a man determined for 
once to clear his heart of something that has 
long lain wriggling there — “ look here. The 
great charm of a bottle of wine after dinner 
between two friends is this : it enables them 
to talk like nhilosophers ; and so that the 


servants don’t hear, philosophy with a glass 
of good fruity port — and yours is capital, one 
tastes blood and fibre in it ; — philosophy is a 
very pleasant sort of thing ; but like that 
china sheperdess on the mantel-piece, it is 
much too fine and delicate for the outside 
world. No, no ; it is only to be properly 
enjoyed in a parlor ; snug and with the door 
shut.” 

“ Very well. Perhaps it is. We are 
talking of our debts to woman. Go on,” said 
Snipeton. 

“ Our debts to woman. Well, to begin ; 
in the first place we call her an angel ; h^ave 
called her an angel for thousands of years ; 
and I take it — but mind, I speak as a philoso- 
pher — I take it, that’s a flam that should count 
as a good set-off on our side. Or I ask it, are 
men, the lords of the creation, to go on lying 
for nothing It was plain that this wicked 
unbelief of Crossbone a little shocked his host, 
and therefore, as the bottle was nearly out, 
the apothecary felt that he must regain some 
of his ground. Whereupon he sought to 
give a jocular guise to his philosophy; to 
make it, for the nonce, assume the comic 
mask. “ Ha ! ha ! Look here : you must 
allow that woman ought, as much as in her 
lies, to make this world quite a paradise for us, 
seeing that she lost us the original garden.” 
Snipeton just smiled. “ Come, come,” cried 
the hilarious apothecary, “ we talk as philoso- 
phers, and when all’s said and done about 
what we owe to woman, you must allow that 
we’ve a swinging balance against her. Yes, 
yes ; you can’t deny this : there’s that little 
matter of the apple still to be settled for.” 

“ ’Tis a debt of long standing,” said Snipe- 
ton” with a short laugh. 

“ And therefore, as you knov/ — nobody 
better” — urged Crossbone — “therefore it 
bears a heavy interest. So heavy, Mr. 
Snipeton — by-the-by, the bottle ’s out — so 
heavy they can never pay it. And so we 
musn’t be hard upon ’em, poor souls — ^no, we 
mustn’t be hard upon ’em ; but get what we 
can in small but sweet instalments. I — for all 
I talk in this philosophic way — I was never 
hard upon ’efn — dear little things — in all my 
life.” 

For a few minutes philosophy took breath, 
whilst wine, the frequent nutriment of that 
divine plant, as cultivated by Crossbone, was 
renewed. At length, the apothecary observed 
— “ To serious business, Mr. Snipeton. 
Having had our little harmless laugh at the 
sex, let us speak of one who is its sweetest 
flower, and its sweetest ornament. Need I 
name Mrs. Snipeton ?” 

' The old man sighed ; moved uneasily in 
his chair ; and then with an effort began. 
“ Mr. Crossbone, my friend — I cannot tell 
you — no words can tell you, how I love that 
woman.” 


148 


THE HISTORY OF 


“ I can imagine the case — very virulent 
indeed,” said the apothecary. “ Late in life 
it’s always so. Love with young men, I 
mean with very young men, is nothing ; a 
slight fever. Now, at mature time of life, it’s 
little short of deadly typhus.. Of coui*se, I 
speak of love before marriage ; that is, love 
with all its fears and anxieties ; for wedlock’? 
a good febrifuge.” 

“ I have struggled, fought with myself to 
think — but you shall tell me — yes, I will 
strengthen myself to hear the worst. Now, 
man,” — and Snipeton grasped the arms of 
his chair with an iron hold, and his breast 
heaved as he loudly uttered — “ now, speali 
it.” 

“ Look you here, Mr. Snipeton. Do you 
think me a stock, or a stone, that I could sit 
here quietly and comfortably drinking your 
wine, if t couldn’t give you hope — a little 
hope in return ?” 

“ A little hope !” groaned the old man. 

“ A man in my position, Mr. Snipeton — 
with glorious circumstances, as I have ob- 
served, opening upon him — cannot be too 
cautious. I should be so:rry to compromise 
myself by desiring you to be too confident. 
Nevertheless, she is young, Mr. Snipeton ; 
and the spirit of youth does sometimes puzzle 
us. In such spirit then — strong as it is in 
her — I have the greatest faith.” 

“ You have,” exclaimed Snipeton, starting 
from his seat and seizing Crossbone’s hand. 
“ Save her and — and you shall be rich ; that 
is, you shall be well recompensed — very well. 
My good friend, you know not the misery 
it costs me to seem happy in her sight. 1 
laugh and jest” — Crossbone looked doubting- 
ly — “ to cheat her of her melancholy ; yet” — 

“ Yet she does not laugh and joke in re^ 
return ?” observed Crossbone. “ But she will 
— no doubt she will.” 

“ And then, though I know her to be sick 
and suffering, she never complains ; but still 
assures me she is well — very well” 

“ Dear soul ! You ought to be a happy 
man — you ought, but you won’t. Can’t you 
see that she won’t confess to sickness because 
— kind creature ! — she can’t think of paining 
you ? She’d smile and say ’twas nothing — I 
know she would, if she were dying.” 

“ For God’s sake, speak not such a word,” 
cried the old man, turning pale. 

“ She must die some day,” said Crossbone. 
’Though, to be sure, according to the course 
of nature, that is, if I save her — of which, in- 
deed, to tell you truly, I have no doubt — I will 
stake my reputation present and to c'bme upon 
the matter” — 

“ You give me life, youth,” exclaimed 
Snipeton, with sudden happiness. 

“ But I was about to say that, if saved' the 
chances are you may leave her yet young 
and blooming, behind you.” The old man’s 


face darkened. It was a bitter thought that. 
Was there not some place in the East, where, 
when a husband died, his wife even through 
the torture of fire, followed him ? This hor- 
rid thought — how, poor man 1 could he help 
it 1 for reader, how know you what thought 
you shall next think ? — this thought, we sa,y/ 
passed through Snipeton's brain. But CJaris- 
sa was no Hindoo wife. She might — as the 
prating doctor said — she might be left, yes, to 
smile and be happy, and more, to award hap- 
piness to another on this earth, when her 
doating, passionately doating husband should 
have his limbs composed in the grave. 
Again ; he might live these twenty years. 
And in twenty years that beautiful face would 
lose its look of youth — those eyes would burn 
with sobered light — that full scarlet lip be 
shrunk and faded. And then — yes, then he 
thought, he could resign her. In twenty 
years — perhaps in twenty years. With this 
cold comfort, he ventured to reply to the 
apothecary. 

“ Never mind my life, that’s nothing,” he 
said. “ All I think of is Clarissa ; and there 
is yet time — she is safe, you say?” 

“ It’s very odd, very droll, that just now 
you should have named Bath — the Bath 
waters, you know,” smirked Crossbone. 

“ Wherefore odd — how droll ? I do not un- 
derstand you.” And yet he had caught the 
meaning. 

“ She must go to Bath ; she must drink the 
waters. Nothing’s left but that,” averred the 
apothecary. ^ 

“ I tell you, man, for these three months I 
cannot quit London. A world of money de- 
pends upon my stay.” 

“ And why should you budge ? You don’t 
want your wife, do you, at St. Mary Axe ? 
She doesn’t keep your books, eh ?” Snipeton 
frowned, and bit his lip, and made no answer 
Then Crossbone, his dignity strengthened by 
his host’s wine, rose. “ Mr. Snipeton,” he 
said, “ I have studied this case, studied it, sir, 
not only as a doctor but as a friend. I have 
now, sir, done my duty ; I leave you as a hus- 
band and — I was about to say as a father, but 
that would be premature ; as a husbajid and 
a man to do yours. All I say is this : if your 
wife does not immediately remove to Bath,” 
— Crossbone paused. 

“ Well,” snarled Snipeton, defyingly, “ and 
if she does not ?” 

“In two months, sir — I give her two 
months — she’ll go to the church-yard.” 

“ And so she may — and so she shall,” ex- 
claimed Snipeton, violently striking the table 
— his face blackening with rage, his eyes 
lurid with passion. “ So she shall. An hon- 
est grave and my name clear — I say, an hon- 
est grave, and a fair tombstone, with a fair 
reputation for the dead. Anything but that 
accursed Bath. Why, sir,” — and Snipeton^ 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


149 


dilating with emotion, stalked towards the 
apothecary — “ what do you think rne ?” 

Now this question, in a somewhat dange- 
rous manner tested Crossbone’s sincerity. In 
sooth, it is at best a perilous interrogative, 
trying to the ingenuousness of a friend. 
Crossbone paused ; not that he had not an 
answer at the very tip of his tongue : an an- 
swer bubbling hot from that well of truth, his 
heart — and for that reason, it was not the 
answer to be rendered. He therefore looked 
duly astonished, and only asked — “ Mr, 
Snipeton, what do you mean ?” 

“ I tell, you man, I’d rather see her dead ; 
a fair and honest corpse, than send her to that 
pest-place,” cried the liusband. 

“ Pest-place ! Really, Mr. Snipeton ; this 
is a little too much to wipe olf the reputation 
of a city — the reputation of hundreds of 
years too — in this manner. Reputation, sir, 
— that is, if it’s good for anything-^-doesn’t 
come up like a toadstool ; no, sir, the real 
thing’s of slow growth. Bath a pest-place ! 
Why, the very fountain* of health.” 

“ The pool of vice — the very slough of 
what you call fashion. And you think I’d 
send my wife there for health ! And for 
what health ? Why, I’ll say slie returned 
with glowing face and sparkling eyes. What 
then ? I should loathe her.” 

“ Lord bless me !” exclaimed Crossbone. 

“ Now, we are happy, very happy ; few 
wedded couples more so : very happy” — and 
Snipeton ground the words beneath all the 
teeth he liad, and looked furiously content. 
Crossbone stared at the writhing image of 
connubial love. 

“ You certainly look happy — extraordina- 
rily happy,” drawled the apothecary. 

“ And whilst we live, will keep so. There- 
fore no Bath insects — no May-flies, no June- 
bugs.” 

“ ’Tisn’t the Bath season for ’em,” put in 
the apothecary. “ They ’re all in London at 
this time.” 

“ All ’s one for that. I tell you what — here, 
Dorothy, another bottle of wine — I tell you 
what. Master Crossbone, as you say, we’ll 
talk the matter over philosophically, I think 
that’s it ; and therefore, no more words about 
Bath. Come, come, can there be a finer air 
than this ?” cried the husband, rubbing his 
hands, and trying to laugh. 

“ My dear sir, the quality of air is not the 
thing — it’s the change that’s the medicine. 
And then there’s the waters” — 

“ We have an excellent spring at Hamp- 
stead. Years ago I’m told the nobility used 
to come and drink it.” 

“ Then, sir, the waters hadn’t been ana- 
lysed. Since then they’ve been found out : 
only fit for cattle, sir, and the lower orders. 
Never known now to agree with a person of 
gentility of stomach— that is, of true delica- 


cy. And for the air, it’s very good, certain- 
ly, just for the common purposes of life : but 
as I say, it’s not the quality, it’s the change 
that’s the thing. There’s cases, sir, in which 
I’d send patients, ay, from Montpelier to the 
neighborhood of Fleet-ditch. The fact is, sir, 
there can’t be at times a better change than 
from the best to the worst. The lungs, sir, 
get tired — heartly sick of good air if it’s al- 
ways the same; just as the stomach would 
get tired of the very best mutton, had it no- 
thing but mutton every day.” 

Snipeton was silent; pondering a refuta- 
tion of this filse philosophy. Still he tugged 
at his brain for a happy rejoinder. He felt — 
he was certain of it — that it would come 
when the apothecary had gone away, but un- 
happily he wanted it for present use. He 
felt himself like a rich man with all his cash 
locked up. Now wit, like money, bears an 
extra value when rung down immediately it 
is wanted ; men pay severely who want'credit. 
Thus, though Snipeton knew he had some- 
where in that very strong box his skull, a 
whole bank of arguments, yet because he 
could not at the moment draw one, Crossbone 
— the way of the world — believed there were 
absolutely no effects. Snipeton, however, 
got over a difficulty as thousands before him 
— and thousands yet unborn will jump an ob- 
stacle ; — he asked his opponent to take an- 
other glass of wine. If Bacchus often lead 
men into quagmires deep as his vats, let us 
yet do him this justice, he sometimes leads 
them out. 

“ I believe you said something about horse 
exercise, Crossbone ? Now with a horse — 
you don’t drink” — a hospitable slander this 
on the apothecary — “ with a horse there’s 
change of air at will, eh ?” 

“ To be sure there is. And then there’s 
Highgate and Finchley, and — well, that 
might do, perhaps,” said Crossbone. 

“ And in the evenings” — and Snipeton 
brightened at the prospect — “ we could ride 
J;ogether.” 

“ Death, sir, — certain death” — and Cross- 
bone gave one of his happiest shudders. 
“The night air is poison — absolute poison. 
No, the time would be from — let me see— 
from eleven to three.” 

“ Impossible ; quite impossible. Can’t leave 
business — certain ruin,” cried Snipeton. 

“ Certain death, then,” said Crossbone, 
and he slowly, solemnly drained his glass. 
“ Certain death,” he repeated. 

“ Don’t say that. Crossbone,” cried Snipe- 
ton, softened. “ Mrs. Wilton — perhaps she 
rides, and then” — 

“ As for Mrs. Wilton, I trust you are un- 
der no particular obligation to that person ?” 

“ Obligation,” cried Snipeton ; as though 
the thought implied an insult. “Wliy do you 
ask?” 


150 


THE HISTORY OF 


“ Nothing but for 3^oiir wife’s health. The 
fact is, Mrs. vVilton always seems melanclio- 
ly, heavy ; with something on her mind. 
Now, my dear sir, it is a trutli in moral phil- 
osophy not sufficiently well known and at- 
tended to, that dumps are catching.” And 
Crossbone looked the proud discoverer of the 
subtlety. 

“ Indeed — are they ? Perhaps they may 
be. Well, there’s a wench coming up from 
Kent — somewhere near Dovesnest. I’ve 
been coaxed to consent to it. She may make 
a sort of merrier companion.” 

“ She may,” said Crossbone ; “ but what 
you want is an honest, sharp fellow — for hon- 
esty without sharpness in this world is like 
a sword without edge or point ; very well 
for show, but of no real use to the owner.” 

“ Go on,” cried Snipeton bowing to the 
apothecary’s apothegm, 

“ Now, I have the very man who’ll suit 
you. The miracle of a groom. Honest as 
a dog, and sharp as a porcupine.” 

“Humph !” cried Snipeton, marvelling at 
the human wonder. 

“ Your servant, Mr. Crossbone” — said 
Dorothy Vale, opening the door — “ has called 
as you desired.” 

“ Tell him to come in,” cried Crossbone : 
who then said to Snipeton — “ At least you can 
see the fellow.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

It may be remembered that Snipeton and 
St Giles had met before. And certainly St. 
Giles had not forgotten the event: his some- 
what anxious look declared his recollection 
of the scene at Dovesnest, in which he play- 
ed the part of rogue and vagabond according 
to the statute ; but as Snipeton had no corres- 
ponding interest in the circumstance, he had 
wholly forgotten the person of the outcast in 
the candidate for service. But in truth, St.^ 
Giles was not the same man. At Dovesnest 
he was in rags : fear and want had sharpened 
his face, withering, debasing him. And now, 
he breathed new courage with every hour’s 
freedom. — He was comfortably, trimly clad ; 
and his pocket — too oft the barometer of the 
soul — was not quite at zero. Hence, in few 
moments, he looked with placid respect at 
Snipeton, who stared all about his face, as a 
picture-dealer stares at an alleged old master; 
with a look that in its cunning, would even 
seem to hope a counterfeit. Was St. Giles 
really the honest fellow that he appeared ; 
was there in truth the original mark of the 
original artist upon him ; or was he a fraud- 
ful imitation especially made to gull a trust- 
ing gentleman ? — Was there really no flaw 
in that honest seeming face » And Snipe- 


ton as he looked, half-wished that all men — 
or all servants at least — were fashioned like 
earthen vessels ; that, properly filliped, they 
should perforce reveal a damnifying fracture. 
Certainly, such sort of human pottery, ex- 
pressly made for families, would be an ex- 
ceeding comfort to all housekeepers. Snipe- 
ton thought this ; to his own disappointment 
thought it : for there being no such test of 
moral soundness, he could only choose the 
domestic, two-legged vessel before him by its 
looks. Alas! why was there no instant 
means of trying the music of its ring ? 

“ That will do ; you can wait,” said Cross- 
bone to St. Giles, who thereupon left the 
room. 

“ And what can you say for this fellow ? 
Do you know all about him — who begot him 
— where he comes from ?” asked Snipeton. 

Crossbone was a man of quick parts : so 
quick, that few knew better than he, the 
proper time for a complete lie. We say a 
complete lie; not a careless, fragmentary 
flarn, with no genius in it ; but a well-built, 
architectural lie, buttressed about by circum- 
stance. Therefore, no sooner was the ques- 
tion put to him, than, v/ithout let or hesitation, 
he poured forth the following narrative. 
Wonderful man! falsehood flowed from him 
like a fountain. 

“ The young man who has just quitted us 
is of humble but honest origin. His parents 
were villagers, and rented a little garden 
ground whereon they raised much of their 
lowly but healthy fare. Far, far indeed was 
the profligacy of London from that abode of 
rustic innocence. His playmates — I mean 
the young man’s — were the lambkins that he 
watched, for at an early age he was sent out to 
tend sheep : his books, the flowers at his feet, 
the clouds above hfs head. Not but what he 
reads remarkably well for his condition, and 
writes a good stout, servant’s hand. He 
was seven years old — no. I’m wrong, eight 
years — when he lost his father, who, good 
creature, fell a victim to his humanity. A 
sad matter that. He was killed by a wind- 
mill.” 

“ I thought you said ’twas his humanity,” 
observed Snipeton. 

“ And a windmill,” averred Crossbone. 
“ A neighbor’s child was gathering butter- 
cups and daisies, and had strayed beneath the 
mill’s revolving sails. The young man’s 
father, obeying the impulse of his benevolent 
heart, rushed forward to save the little inno- 
cent. His humanity, not measuring distance, 
carried him too near the sails ; he was struck 
to the earth with a compound fracture of the 
skull, and died.” 

“ This you know ?” muttered Snipeton, 
looking with a wary eye. 

“ ’Twas when I was an apprentice. The 
man being poor, and the case desperate, ’twas 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. l51 


^ven up to me to do my best with it. I learn- 
ed a great deal from that case, and from that 
moment felt a natural interest in the orphan. 
And he has been worthy of it. You’d hardly 
believe the things I could tell you of that 
young man. You can’t think how he loves 
his mother.” 

“ No great credit in that, — eh ?” said 
Snipeton. 

“ Why, no ; not exactly credit ; but you 
must own it’s graceful — very graceful. He 
makes her take nearly all his wages. Hardly 
saves enough for shirts and pocket-handker- 
chiefs. Now, this strikes me as being very 
filial, Mr. Snipeton ?” 

“ And you think he’d make a good groom, 
eh ?”*asked the cautious husband. 

“ Bless you ! he knows more about horses 
than they know themselves. But all he knows 
is nothing to his honesty. I’ve trusted him 
with untold gold, and he has never laid his 
finger upon it.” 

“ How do you know, if you never counted 
it ?” asked Snipeton. 

“ That is” — said Crossbone, a little pulled 
up — “that is, yon know what I mean. And 
— the thought’s been working in me, though 
I’ve talked of other matters — I do think that 
a horse with the quick and frequent change 
of air a horse can give, may do everything 
for Mrs. Snipeton ; for, as I’ve said before — 
she’s young, very young ; and youth takes 
much killing. And therefore, you’ll make 
yourself easy ; come, you’ll promise me that?” 

“ I will,” said Snipeton, a little softened. 
“ You’ve given me a new heart. Come, an- 
other glass.” 

“ Not another drop. Pen and ink, if you 
please. I must write a little prescription for 
a little nothing for your good lady ; not that 
she wants medicine,” said Crossbone. 

“ Then why poison her with it ?” asked 
Snipeton with some energy. 

“ She wouldn’t be satisfied without it. 
Therefore, just a little colored negative : no- 
thing more.” Pen and ink were ordered, 
brought ; and Crossbone strove to write as 
innocently as his art allowed him. “ There 
must be an apothecary at Hampstead, and 
I’ll send the man with it and Crossbone 
folded the prescription, and rose. 

“ And when shall we see you again ?” 
asked Snipeton. 

“ Why, in two or three days. But I have 
done all the good I can at present. You’ll 
try the horse P’ — 

“I will.”— 

“ And the man ?” — 

“ I’ll think of him. — Tell me, does he know 
anybody in London ?” 

“ Any calf you like, brought to Smithfield, 
knows more of the ways — more of the peo- 
ple of town. He’s a regular bit of country 
. turf. Green and fresh. Else do' you think 


I’d recommend him ?” Asked Crossbone 
very earnestly. 

“ I almost think — I mean I’m pretty sure 
— that is, I will try him,” said Snipeton. 

“Then between ourselves. I’ve recom- 
mended you a treasure. And — stop ; I was 
about to go, forgetting the most important 
thing. You heard me say that dumps were 
catching? I hope you’ve thought of that. 
Now, that Mrs. Wilton — the housekeeper — 
she’d ruin any young woman. Bless you ! 
She’s hypochondria in petticoats.” 

, “ Humph ! I don’t know ; I prefer a seri- 
ous woman for her calling. Perhaps a little 
over melancholy to be sure, nevertheless” — 

“ Well, I’ll say no more. After all, she 
may only seem a little melancholy to us. 
There may be a great deal of fun in her, for 
all we know. Some people remind us of 
mourning coaches at a funeral ; the outside’s 
dull and solemn enough ; and so, folks never 
think of the jokes that’s flying inside of ’em. 
As a professional man, I know this, Mr. 
Snipeton ; and therefore I hate your very 
grave-looking people. If they really are what 
they look, they’re bad ; if they arn’t, they’re 
worse. And in a word — I might say more 
if I chose, but I won’t — in a word, I don’t 
think that Mrs. Snipeton will ever get any 
good from your housekeeper. Good b’ye, God 
bless you — the man shall bring the medicine.” 
So saying, and looking deepest mystery, 
Crossbone departed. 

The apothecary had achieved more than he 
had hoped. It was true, thought Snipeton, 
the woman was cold — melancholy. Again, 
she had never looked upon him with pleasant 
looks. Her respect seemed wrung from her: 
it was not free — natural. And yet her eye 
watched his wife with unceasing regard. 
Every moment — when least wanted, too — 
she was hovering near her. How was it, he 
had never seen this before ? It was plain 
the woman had some false influence : exer- 
cised some power that estranged his wife 
from him. 

Let us leave Snipeton for a brief time strug- 
gling and weltering in this sea of doubt ; now 
trying to touch certain ground, and now 
carried away again. Let us leave him, and 
follow the apothecary. He had just wine 
enough ; which circumstance was to him the 
most potent reason for having more. He had 
put up at the Flask at Hampstead ; and to 
that hostelry he strode, St. Giles silently fol- 
lowing him. 

“ My man,” said Crossbone, “who was your 
father — where were you born — what have 
you been doing — and where do you come 
from ? An answer if you please to each of 
these questions.” 

St. Giles, plucking up courage, simply re- 
plied — “ I am his Lordship’s servant ; and 
have his orders to follow you.” 


152 


THE HISTORY OF 


“ There’s not the slightest doubt, his Lord- 
ship’s servant, that you’re a convenient rascal 
of all work, and quite up to the business we 
shall put you on.” Let not the reader imag- 
ine that these words were uttered by Cross- 
bone : by no means ; not a syllable of them. 
But the thought — the ethereal essence of 
words — had touched the brain of the apothe- 
cary, and his whole frame tingled with the 
awakened music. He had found a scoundrel, 
he was sure of it, and he was happy. 

“ Very good, my man ; very good ; I un- 
derstand you. As you say, you are his Lord- 
ship’s servant, and have his Lordship’s orders 
to take my directions. Very well. You will 
therefore please to take your father and mo- 
ther from my hands : understand for once 
that they were honest, respectable people ; 
and be grateful for the parents I’ve given you. 
Your father, good man ! was killed by a 
windmill ; and your mother still lives in the 
country, and regularly takes three-fourths of 
your wages. And you are not to forget that 
you have a great love for that mother. And 
now, take this prescription to the apotheca- 
ry’s ; tell him to make it up, and send to Mr. 
Snipeton’s. After which, you’ll come to me 
at the Flask. Go.” St. Giles, with per- 
plexed looks, obeyed Crossbone, and went 
upon his errand. “ I’ve given the vagabond 
a father and mother to be proud of — it’s quite 
clear, much better than were really bestowed 
upon him ; and he hasn’t a word of thanks 
to say upon the matter. Let a gentleman lie 
as he will for the lower orders, they’re seldom 
grateful. Nevertheless, let us have the virtue 
that lie wants. Were he a piece of pig-headed 
honesty, he wouldn’t suit our work. No : 
Providence has been very good in sending us 
a rascal.” With these mute thoughts, this 
final thanksgiving, did Crossbone step on- 
ward to the Flask. He would there ponder 
on the plan that, throwing Snipeton’s young 
wife into the arms of a young nobleman — 
and, in common justice, so old and vulgar a 
man had no claim to such refinement and 
beauty ; she must have been originally in- 
tended for high life, and therefore cruelly 
misapplied — would throw him. Crossbone, 
the prime conspirator, into the very highest 
practice. He would keep a carriage ! As he 
looked at the glorious clouds, colored by the 
settihg sun, he felt puzzled whether his 
coach panels should be a bright blue, a flame- 
colored yellow, or a rich mulberry. Still the 
clouds changed and shifted, and still with the 
color of his carriage at his heart, he looked 
upon them as no other than a celestial pat- 
tern-book, rolled out to help him in his choice. 
The wide west was streaked and barred with 
gold ; and staring at it. Crossbone was de- 
termined that lace — three inch-lace — should 
blaze upon his liveries. And wrapt in this 
sweet dream, he walked on, his heart throb- 


ing to the rumbling of his coach wheels, 
that music was so sweet, so deep, absorbing, 
that accompanying his footsteps, he was 
within a few paces of the Flask ere he saw 
a crowd gathered about the door, and heard 
the v/ords “ he’s killed.” His professional 
zeal was immediately quickened, and hurry- 
ing into the middle of the crowd, he saw the 
body of a man, apparently lifeless, carried to- 
wards the inn. The people crowded around, 
and by their very anxiety impeded the pro- 
gress of the bearers towards the door. 
“ Stand aside, folks — stand aside,” cried 
Crossbone, “I’m a physician ; that is, a med- 
ical man. Keep his head up, fellow.” 

“ Get out o’ the way,” exclaimed a stran- 
ger, “ you don’t know how to carry a fellow- 
cretur,” and the benevolent new-comer thrust 
aside the rustic who was, awkwardly enough, 
supporting the shoulders of the wounded man‘ 
and with admirable zeal, and great apparent 
tenderness, relieved him of the charge. “ I 
do wonder if he’s a wife and family ?” 

“ A bed-room ; immediately — a bed-room,” 
exclaimed Crsssbone, and his sudden patient 
was carried up-stairs, Crosbone following. — 
As he ascended, a horse bathed in foam, and 
every muscle quivering, was led to the door. 

“ It’s my belief that that Claypole sends out 
his boy to fly his kite a purpose to kill people, 
that he may bury ’em. That’s the third horse 
he’s frit this week ; the little varmint ! And 
this looks like death any how.” Thus deliv- 
ered himself, a plain-spoken native of Hamp- 
stead. 

“ You may say death. Cracked like a egg- 
shell and saying this, the speaker signifi- 
cantly pointed to his own skull. “ The doc- 
tor’s a trying to get blood : it’s my opinion 
he might as well try a tomb-stone. Well, 
this is a world, isn’t it ? I often thanks my 
luck I don’t afford a horse ; for who’s safe a 
horseback ? A man kisses his wife and his 
babbies, if he has ’em, when he mounts his 
saddle of a mornin’ — and his wife gets him 
lamb and sparrow-grass, or something nice 
for supper, — ’xpecting him home. She lis- 
tens for his horse’s feet, and he’s brouo-ht to 
his door in a shell.” 

“ Well, mate, you do speak the truth ; no- 
body can deny that,” said one of the mob ; 
who, it is probable, scarcely dreamt that the 
sometime moralist and truth 'were so very 
rarely on speaking terms. And this the read- 
er will, doubtless admit, when we inform him 
that the man who so humanely, so affection- 
ately lent his aid to the thrown horseman, 
helping to bear him with all tenderness up 
stairs, was Mr. Thomas Blast. It was his 
business, or rather, as he afterwards revealed, 
his pleasure to be at Hampstead — his solemn 
pleasure. At this moment St. Giles, on his 
return from the apothecary’s, came to the inn- 
door. Ere he was well aware of the greeting 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


J53 


his hand was grasped by Blast, — “ Well, how 
do you do? Who’d have thought to see you 
here ?” Who, in sooth, but Blast himself, — 
seeing that he had dogged his prey from St. 
James’s-sq^are ? “ Ha ! my good friend,” 
cried Blast, very much moved, “ you don’t 
know the trouble I’ve had since we met. 
But you must see it in my looks. Tell me, 
aint I twenty years older ?” 

“I don’t ‘see it,” muttered St. Giles: 
though, assuredly, such a sight would have 
carried its pleasure to the runaway transport. 

“Hal you won’t see it: that’s so like a 
friend. But don’t let us stand in the street ; 
come in and have a.pot ; for I’ve somethin’ 
to say that’ll set your art a bleed ing.” Hoping, 
praying, that Crossbone might not observe 
him — and feeling dwarfed, powerless, under 
the will of Blast, — St. Giles turned into a 
side room with his early teacher and destroy- 
er. 

“I don’t feel as if I could do anything 
much in the way of drink,” said Blast, to the 
waiter following, “ and so, a little brandy-and 
water. Well, you wonder to see me at Hamp- 
stead, I dare say ? You can’t guess' what 
brings me here ?” 

“ No,” said St. Giles. “ How should I ?” 

“ I’m a altered man. I come here all this 
way for nothin’ else but to see the sun settin’. 
Your health and Blast, as he said, did no- 
thing in the way of drink ; for he gulped his 
brandy-and- water. 

“ To see the sun a-setting !” cried St. 
Giles ; we fear, too, a little incredulously. 

“ Ha ! you’re young, and likes to see him 
a gettin’ up ; it’s natrul ; but when you’re 
my time o’ life, and have stood the wear and 
tear o’ the world as I have, you^ll rather look 
at the sun when he sets, then. And, do you 
know why? You don’t? I’ll tell you. 
Acause, when he sets, he reminds you of 
where you’re agoing. I never thoughf I 
should ha’ been pulled up in the way I have 
been. But trouble’s done it. My only com- 
fort’s now to look at the settin’ sun — and he 
sets nowhere so styli.shly as here at Hamp- 
stead.” 

“ Humph I And so you’ve had trouble ?” 
said St. Giles, coldly. 

“Don’t talk in that chilly way, as if your 
words were hail-stones. I feel as if I could 
fall on your neck, and cry like a ’oman. Don’t 
freeze me in that manner^ I said trouble. 
Loss ’o property, and death.” 

“ Death I” cried St. Giles. 

“ Little Jingo. That apple ’o both my eyes ; 
that tulup of a child. Well, he was too clever 
to live long. I always thought it. Much too 
for’ard for his age. He’s gone. And now 
he’s gone, I do feel that I was his father.” 
St. Giles stifled a rising groan. “ But — it’si 
my only comfort — he’s better looked arter] 
now than with me.” , . 


“ No doubt,” said St. Giles with a quick- 
ness that made Blast start. “ I mean, if he 
is where you hope he is.” 

“ I should like to pay him some respect. I 
don’t want to do much : but — ^I know it’s a 
weakness ; still a man without a weakness 
has no right to live among men ; he’s too 
good for this sinful world. As I was saying, 
I know it’s a weakness : still, I should like to 
wear a little bit ’o black — if it was only a rag 
so it was black. You couldn’t lend me no- 
thing, could you ? Only a coat would be 
something to begin with.” 

St. Giles pleaded in excuse his very limit- 
ed wardrobe ; and Blast was suddenly satis- 
fied. 

“ Well, he’s gone ; and if I was to go as 
black as a nigger, he wouldn’t rest the better 
for t. Besides, the settin’ sun tells me we 
shan’t be long apart. Nothing like sunsets 
to pull a man up ; and so you’ll know when 
you’ve had my trouble. Your health agin.” 

“ And you have had a loss of property be- 
sides ?” asked St. Giles. 

“ Look here,” cried Blast, taking off his hat 
and rumpling up his hair : “ there’s a change ! 
Once as black as a crow ; and now — oh, my 
dear friend” — St. Giles shrunk at the appeal 
as at a presented pistol — “ if you want to put 
silver on a man’s head, you’ve only to take 
all the gold out of his pocket. Had a loss ! 
You may say a loss. I tell you what it is : 
it’s no use for a man to think of being honest 
in this world : it isn’t. I’ve tried, and I give 
it lip.” 

“ That’s a pity,” said St. Giles : knowing 
not what to say — knowing not how to shake 
off his tormentor. 

“ Why, it is ; for a man doesn’t often make 
his mind up to it. Well, I’ve had my faults, 

I know : who hasn’t? Still, I did think to 
reform when I got that lump of money ; and 
more, I did think to make a man of you. I’d 
chalked out the prettiest, innocentest life for 
both on us. I’ll make a sojer of Jingo, I 
thought; yes. I’ll buy him some colors for the 
army, and make him a gen’lman at once. 
And then I thought we would so enjoy our- 
selves ! We’d ha’ gone and been one all 
among the lower orders. In summer time 
we’d ha’ played at knock-’em-downs with ’em, 
jest to show we was all made o’ the same 
stuff ; and in winter we wouldn’t ha’ turned 
up our noses at hot-cockles, or blind-man’s 
buff, or nothin’ of the sort ; but ha’ been as 
free and comfortable with the swinish multi- 
tude (for I did begin to think ’em that, when I 
got the money) as if they’d got gold rings in 
their noses, and like the pig-faced lady, eat 
out of a silver trough. I thought you’d be a 
stick to my old age. But what’s the use o’ 
thinking on it ? As my schoolmaster used 
to say, — ‘ Him as sets his heart on the things 


V 


154 


THE HISTORY OF 


% 


of this life,’ — I’ve forgot the rest : but it’s all 
of a piece.” 

“ And how did you get this money ?” asked 
St. Giles, with very well-acted innocence, 

“ How did I get the money ? How should 
I get it ? By the sweat of my brow.” And 
so far the reader who remembers the labor of 
Blast in his theft of the gold-box, may acquit 
him of an untruth. 

“ And having got such a heap of gold,” 
rejoined St. Giles, “ pray tell me— how did 
you lose it ?” 

Now Blast had, and never suspected it, a 
sense of humor : he could really enjoy a joke 
when least palatable to most men ; namely, 
when made against themselves. Nevertheless, 
with people who have only a proper pride of 
such philosophy, he had his share of sensitive- 
ness, to be called up at a reasonable crisis. 
Hence, when St. Giles pressed him to explain 
his loss, the jest became a hurt. Good nature 
may endure a tickling with a feather, but re- 
sents a scratch from a tenpenny nail. “ My 
dear young friend,” said Blast, “ don’t do that ; 
pray don’t. When you’re as old as me, and 
find the world a slippin’ from under you like 
a hill o’ sand, you’ll not laugh at the losses 
o’ gray hairs,” and again Blast drew his fin- 
•gers through his locks meekly, mournfully. 
“ How did 1 lose it ? No : you warn’t at Liquor- 
ish, you warn’t ? No ; you don’t know ? Well, 
I hope I’m not much worse than my neigh- 
bors ; and I don’t like wishing bad wishes, it 
is sich old woman’s work ; it’s only barking 
the louder for wanting teeth. But this I will 
wish ; if a clergyman o’ the'-Stablished Church 
is ever to choke himself with a fish-bone, I do 
hope that that clergyman doesn’t live far from 
Lazarus, and that his name begins with a G. 
I’m not a spiteful man ; and so I won’t wish 
anything more plain than that. But it is hard” 
— and again Blast, he could not help it, recur- 
red to his loss — “ it is hard, when I’d resolved 
to live in peace with all the world, to give a 
little money to the poor, and — as we all must 
die — when I did die, to have sich a clean, 
respectable moniment put up to me inside the 
church, with a naked boy in white stone hold- 
ing one hand to his eyes, and the other put- 
ting out his link — you’ve seen the sort o’ 
thing I dare say ? — it is hard to be done out 
of it, after all. It’s enough to make a man, 
as I say, think o’ nothin’ but the setting sun. 
Howsomever, it serves me right. I ought to 
ha’ know’d that sich a fine place must ha’ be- 
longed to the clergyman. If I’d hid the box 
in a ditch, and not in a parson’s fish-pond, at 
this blessed moment you and I might ha’ been 
happy men ; lords for life ; and, what I’ve 
heard, called useful members of society. And 
now, mate,” asked Blast with sudden warmth 
— how do you like your place ? Is it the 
thing — is it dover ?” 


“ What place ?” asked St. Giles. “ I’m in 
no place, certain, as yet.” 

“ There, then, we won’t say nothin’ about 
it. Only this. When you’re butler — if I’m 
spared in this wicked world so long, — you 
won’t refuse an old friend. Jingo’s friend, 
Jingo’s mother’s friend” — St. Giles turned 
sick at his mother’s name, so spoken — “ you 
won’t refuse him a bottle o’ the best in the 
pantry ? You won’t, will you ? Eh ?” 

“ No,” stammered St. Giles. “ Why should 
I ? Certainly not, when I’m butler.” 

“ And till then, old fellow,” — and Blast 
bent forward in his chair, and touched St. 
Giles’s knee with his finger — “ lend us a 
guinea.” 

St. Giles recoiled from the request ; the 
more so, as it was seconded by contact with 
the petitioner. He made no answer ; but his 
face looked blank as blank paper : not a mark 
was in it to serve as hieroglyph for a farthing. 
Blast could read faces better than books. 
“ You won’t then ? Not so much as a guinea 
to the friend of Jingo’s mother ?” St. Giles 
writhed again at the words. “ Well, as it’s 
like the world, why should I quarrel ? Now 
jest see the difference. See the money I’d ha’ 
given you, if misfortin hadn’t stept in. ‘ He’s 
a fine fellow,’ I kept continually saying to my- 
self ; ‘ I don’t know how it is, I like him, and 
he shall have half. Not a mite less than half.’ 
And now, you won’t lend me — for mind I 
don’t ax it as a gift — you won’t lend me a 
guinea.” 

“ I can’t,” said St. Giles. “ I am poor my- 
self : very poor.” 

“Well, as I said afore, we won’t quarrel. 
And so, you shall have a guinea of me.” 
Saying this. Blast with a cautious look to- 
wards the door, drew a long leathern purse 
from his pocket. St. Giles suddenly felt as 
though a party to the robbery that — he knew 
it — Blast must somewhere have perpetrated. 

“ Not a farthing,” said St. Giles, as Blast 
dipped his finger and thumb in the purse. 
“ Not a farthing.” 

“ Don’t say that ; don’t be proud, for you 
don’t know in this world what you may want. 
I dare say the poor cretur up stairs was proud 
enough this mornin’ ; and what is he how ?” 

“ Not dead !” cried St. Giles. “ I hope not 
dead.” 

“ Why, hope’s very well ; and then it’s so 
very cheap. But there’s no doubt he’s gone ; 
and as he’s gone, what, I should like to know” 
— and Blast threw the purse airily up and 
down — “ what was the use of this to him ?” 

“Good God! You haven’t stole it?” ex- 
claimed St. Giles, leaping to his feet. 

“ Hush !” cried Blast, “ don’t make sich a 
noise as that with a dead body in the house. 
The worst o’ folks treat the dead with respect. 
Else people who’re never thought of at all 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAiMES. 


155 


when in the world, wouldn’t be gone into 
black for when they go out of it. I’d no 
thouglit of the matter, when I run to help the 
poor cretur : but somehow, going up stairs, 
one of his coat pockets did knock at my 
knuckles so, that I don’t know how it was, 
when I’d laid him comfortable on the bed, and 
was coming down agin, I found this sort o’ 
thing in my pocket., Poor fellow ! he’ll never 
miss it. Well, you won’t have a guinea 
then?” 

“ I’d starve first,” exclaimed St. Giles. 

“ My good lad, it isn’t for me to try to put 
myself over your head, — but this I must say, 
when you’ve seen the world as I have, you’ll 
know better.” At this moment the waiter 
entered the room. 

“ How is the poor gentleman up stairs ?” 
asked St. Giles. “ Is there no hope ?” 

“ Lor bless you, yes ! They’ve bled him and 
made him quite comfortable. He’s ordered 
some rump-steaks and onions, and says he’ll 
make a night o’ it.” Thus spoke the waiter. 

“ Do you hear that ?” asked ^t. Giles of 
Blast. 

“ Sorry to hear it : sorry to think that any 
man arter sich an escape, should think o’ no- 
thing better than supper. My man, what’s to 
pay?” St. Giles unbuttoned his pocket. “No; 
not a farden ; tell you, I won’t hear of it. 
Not a farden : bring the change out o’ that,” 
and Blast laid down a dollar : and the waiter 
departed on his errand. 

“ I tell you, I don’t want you to treat me ; 
and I won’t have it,” said St. Giles. 

“ My good young man, a proper pride’s a 
proper thing ; and 1 don’t like to see nobody 
without it. But pride atween friends I hate. 
So good bye, for the present. I’ll take my 
change at the bar.” And Mr. Blast was about 
to hurry himself from the room. 

“ Stay,” said St. Giles ; “ should I wish to 
See you, where are you to be found ?” 

“ Well, I don’t know,” said Blast. “ Some- 
times in one place — sometimes in another. 
But one thing, my dear lad, is quite sure.” 
Here Blast put both his hands on St. Giles’s 
shoulders and looked in his face with smiling 
malignity — “ one thing is quite sure : if you 
don’t know how to find me, I shall always 
know where to come upon you. Don’t be 
afeared of that, young man.” 

And with this. Blast left the room, whilst 
St. Giles sank in his chair, weary and sick at 
heart. He was in the villain’s power, and 
seemed to exist only by his Sufferance. 


' CHAPTER XXIX. 

Does it live in the memory of the reader 
that Snipeton, only a chapter since, spoke of 
a handmaid on her way from Kent to make 


acquaintance with Jiis fire-side divinities ? 
That human flower, with a freshness of soul 
like the dews of Paradise upon her is, reader, 
at this very moment in Fleet-street. Her 
face is beaming with happiness — her half- 
opened mouth is swallowing wonders — and 
her eyes twinkle, as though the London pave- 
ment she at length treads upon was really and 
truly the very best of gold, and dazzled fier 
with its glorifying brightness. She looks 
upon the beauty and wealth about her gaily, 
innocently, as a little child would look upon a 
state coffin ; the velvet is so rich, and the 
plates and nails so glittering* She has not 
the wit to read the true meaning of the splen- 
dor ; cannot, for a moment, dream of what it 
covers. Indeed, she is so delighted, dazzled 
by what she sees, that she scarcely hears the 
praises of the exceeding beauty of her features, 
the wondrous symmetry of her form ; praises 
vehemently, industriously uttered by a youth- 
ful swain who walks at her side, glancing at 
her fairness with the libertine’s felonious look. 
He eyes her innocence, as any minor thief 
would eye a brooch or chain ; or, to give the 
youth his due, he now and then ventures to 
a bolder stare ; for he has the fine intelligence 
to know that he may rob that country wench 
of herself, and no Bridewell — no Newgate — 
wili punish the larceny. Now/, even th^e bow 
of sixpenny ribband on her bonnet is protect- 
ed by a statue. Besides, Master Ralph Gum 
knows the privileges of certain people in a 
certain condition of life. Young gentlemen 
born and bred in London, and serving the no- 
bility, are born and educated the allo\ved pro- 
tectors of rustic girls. The pretty country 
things — it was the bigoted belief of the young 
footman — might be worn, like bouquets on a 
birth-day. And the wench at his side is a 
nosegay expressly sent by fortune from the 
country for his passing felicity and adornment. 
True it is, that Master Ralph Gum is scarcely 
looming out of boyhood ; but there is a sort 
of genius that soars far boyond the parish re- 
gister. Ralph’s age is not to be counted by 
the common counters, years ; but by the rarer 
marks of precocious intelligence. He is a 
liveried prodigy ; one of those terribly clever 
animals that, knowing everything, too often 
confound simple people with their fatal knowl- 
edge. Therefore was it specially unfortunate 
fo° the damsel that of all the crowd that 
streamed through Fleet-street, she should 
have asked Ralph Gum to indicate her way 
to St. Mary Axe. At the time, she was set- 
ting due eastward ; when the faithless vassal 
assured her she was going clean wrong ; and, 
as happily he himself had particular business 
towards her destination, it would give him a 
pleasure he could never have hoped for, to 
guide her virgin steps to St. Mary Axe. And 
she — poor maid ! — believed and turned her 
all-unconscious face towards Temple Bar. 


156 


THE HISTORTt OF 


The young man, though a little dark, had 
such bright black eyes — and such very large, 
and very white teeth, — and wore so very line 
a livery, that it would have been flying in the 
face of truth to doubt him. Often at tlie rustic 
fire-side had she listened to the narrated wick- 
edness of London ; again and again had she 
pre-armed her soul with sagacious strength 
to meet and confound tlie deception that in so 
m£tny guises prowled the city streets, for the 
robbery and destruction of the Arcadian stran- 
ger. yhe felt herself invincible until the very 
moment that Ralph gave smiling, courteous 
answer to her ; and then, as at the look and 
voice of a charmer the Amazonion breast-plate 
(forged over many tears) she had buckled on, 
melted like frost-work at the sun, and left her 
an unprotected, because believing woman. 

“ Why, and what’s them ?” cried the girl, 
suddenly fixed before St. Dunstan’s church. 
At the moment the sun reached the meridian, 
and two wooden giants, mechanically punc- 
tual, striking their clubs upon the bell, gave 
warning note of noon. Those giants have 
passed away ; those two great ligneous heroes 
of the good old times have been displaced 
and banished ] and we have submitted to learn 
the hour from an ordinary dial. There was a 
grim dignity in their bearing — a might in their 
action— that enhanced the value of the time 
they noted : their clubs fell upon the senses 
of parishioners and way-farers, with a power 
and impressiveness not compassable by a 
round, pale-faced clock. It was, we say, to 
give a worth and solemnity to time, to have 
time counted by such grave tellers. If the 
parishioners of St. Dunstan and the frequent 
passengers of Fleet-street have, of late years, 
contributed more than their fair quota to the 
stock of national wickedness, may not the evil 
be philosophically traced to the deposition of 
their wooden monitors ? This very valuable 
surmise of ours ought to be quoted in parlia- 
ment — that is, if lawmakers properly prepared 
themselves for their solemn tasks, by duly 
conning histories like the present — quoted in 
opposition to the revolutionary movement of 
the time. For we have little doubt that a 
motion for the return of the number of felonies 
and misdemeanors — to say nothing of the so- 
cial offences that may be the more grave be- 
cause not named in the statues — committed in 
the parish of St. Dunstan’s, would show an al- 
arming increase since the departure of St. 
Dunstan’s wooden genii. A triumphant argu- 
ment this — we modestly conceive — for the 
conservation of wooden things in high places. 
“ La ! and what’s them ?” again cried the 
girl, twelve o’clock being told by the strikers. 

“ Why, my tulup, them’s a couple of cruel 
churchwardens turned into wood, hundreds of 
years ago, for their sins to the poor. But you 
are a beauty, that you are !” added Ralph, with 
burning gallantry. 


“ It can’t be ; and you never mean it,” said 
the maiden, really forgetting her own loveli- 
ness in her wonder of the giants. “ Turned 
into wood ? Unpossible ! Who did it ?” 

“ Why, Providence, — or, something of the 
kind, you know ?” replied the audacious foot- 
man. “You’ve heard of Whittington, I 
should think, my marigold, eh ? He made a 
fortin in the Indies, where he let out his cat 
to kill all the vermin in all the courts — and a 
nice 50b I should think puss must have had 
of it. Well, them giants was churchwardens 
in his time : men wdth flesh and blood in their 
hearts, though now they’ bleed nothing but 
saw-dust.” 

“ You don’t say so ! Poor souls ! And 
what did they do ?” asked the innocent dam- 
sel. 

Mr. Ralph Gum scratched his Iread for in- 
spiration ; and then made answer : “You see, 
there was a poor woman — a. sailor’s wife — 
with three twins in her arms. And she went 
to one churchwarden, and said as how she 
was a starving ; and that her very babbies 
couldn't cry" for weakness. And he told her 
to come to-morrow, for it wasn’t the time to 
relieve paupers : and then she went to the 
other churchwarden, and he sent out word 
that she must come again in two days and not 
afore.” 

“ Two days !” cried the maiden. “ The 
cruel creturs ! didn’t they know what time 
was to the starving !” 

“ Why, no ; they didn’t ; and for that rea- 
son, both the churchwardens fell sick, all 
their limbs everyday a turning into wood. 
And then they died ; and they was going to 
bury ’ em, when next morning their coflins 
were found empty ; and they was seen where 
they now stand. And there was a Act of 
Parliament made that their relations shouldn’t 
touch ’em, but let ’em stand to strike the 
clock, as a warning to all wicked churchwar- 
dens to know what hours are to folks with* 
hungry bellies.” 

“ Wonderful !” exclaimed the girl, inno- 
cent as a bleating lamb. “ And now, young 
man, you ’re sure this is the wav to Marv 
Axe ?” 

“ Didn’t I tell you, my sunflower, I was 
born there ? I would carry your bundle for 
you, only you see, his lordship, the nobleman 
I serve, is very particular. Livery’s livery ; 
—he ’d discharged any of us that demeaned 
himself to carry a bundle. Bless you *, there 
are young fellows in our square— only I ’m 
not proud— that wouldn’t speak to you with 
such a thing as a bundle ; they wouldn’t, my 
wild rose. But then, you ’re such a beauty !” 

“ No ; I am not. I know what I am, 
young man. I ’m not of the worst, but a 
good way from the best. Besides, beauty, as 
they say, is only skin-deep ; is it ?” asked tlie 


ST. GILES AND ST, JAMES, 


157 


maiden, not imwilling to dwell upon the 
theme. 

“ Well, you’re deep enough for me any- 
how,” replied the foolboy, and he fixed his 
eyes as though he thought them burning- 
glasses, on the guileless stranger. And 
now, here you are, right afore Temple Bar.’’ 

“ Mercy ! what a hig gate ! and what ’s it 
for, young man 2” cried the wondering girl. 

“ Why, I once heard it said in our hall that 
Temple Bar was built on purpose to keep the 
scum of the city from running over into the 
West End. Now, tliis I don’t believe,” aver- 
red Ralph. 

“ Nor I, neither,” cried the ingenuous 
wench, “ else, doesn’t it stand to reason they’d 
keep the gate shut 2’ ’ 

“ My ’pinion is wliat I once heard, — that 
Temple Bar was really built at the time of 
the Great Plague of London, to keep the dis- 
ease from the king and queen., the rest of the 
royal family, with all the nobility, spirital and 
temporal. ” And Ralph coughed. 

“ Well, if you don’t talk like a prayer-book ! ” 
exclaimed the maiden, full of admiration. 

“ I ought, by this time ; I was born to it, 
my dear. Bless your heart, when I was no 
higher nor that, I was in our house. I learnt 
my letters from the plate ; yes, real gold and 
silver ; none of your horn-books. And as lor 
pictures, I din’t go to books for them neither ; 
no, I used to study the coach panels. There 
wasn’t a griffin, nor a cockatrice, nor a tiger, 
nor a viper of any sort upon town I wasn’t 
acquainted with. That’s knowing life, 1 
think. It isn’t for me to talk, my bed of vio- 
lets , but you wouldn’t think the Latin I know; 
and all from coaches.” 

“ Wonderful ! But are you sure this is the 
way to Mary Axe 2” and with the question 
the maiden crossed the city’s barrier, and with 
her lettered deceiver trod the Strand. 

“ If you ask me that again,’’ answered the 
slightly- wounded Ralph, 1 don’t know that 
I’ll answer you. — Come along. As the car- 
riage says, ‘ Hora el semper.^ ” 

“ Now, if you go on in that way I won’t be- 
lieve a word you say. English for me; — 
acause then I can giye you as good as you 
send. No ; wholesome English, or I won’t 
step another step and it was plain that the 
timid rustic felt some slight alarm — was a 
little oppressed by the mysterious knowledge 
of her first London acquaintance. She 
thought there was some hocus pocus associ- 
ated with Latin ; it was to her the natural 
utterance of a conjuror. With some empha- 
sis she added, “ All I want to know is — 
how far is it to Mary Axe 2” 

“ Why, my carnation, next to nothing now. 
Step out ; and you’ll be there afore you know 
it. As I say, I only wish I could carry your 
bundle — I do, my daisy.” Mr.Gum might have 
spared his regrets^ Had his gracious majesty 


pulled up in his carriage, and offered to be the 
bearer of that bundle, its owner would have 
refused him the enjoyment ; convinced that it 
was not the king of England who proposed 
the courtesy, but the father of all wickedness, 
disguised as royal Brunswick, and driving 
about in a carriage of shadows, for the espe- 
cial purpose of robbing rustic maids. As we 
have intimated, the damsel, had in the fast- 
nesses of Kent, learned prudence against the 
iniquities of London. And so, believing that 
St. Mary Axe was close at hand, she hope- 
fully jogged on. 

“ What a many churches !”" she said, look- 
ing at St. Clement’s. “ Well, tlie folks in 
London ought to be good.” 

“ And so they are, my wallflower,” rejoin- 
ed the footman. “ The best in the world; 
take ’em in the lump. And there, you see, 
is another church. And besides what we 
have, we’re a going to have I don’t know 
how many hundred more built, that every- 
body, as is at all anybody, may have a com- 
fortable pew to his whole self, and not be 
mixed up — like people in the gallery of a 
playhouse — along of the lower orders. I 
dare say, now, your grandmother in the coun- 
try”— 

“ Ain’t got no grandmother,” said the girl. 

“Well, it’s all the same : the old women 
where you come from — dare say they talk- 
ed to you about the wickedness of London, 
didn’t they 2 And how all the handsome 
young men you’d meet was nothing more 
than roaring lions, rolling their eyes about, 
and licking their mouths, to eat up anybody 
as come fresh from the daisies 2 Didn’t 
they tell you this, eh, beauty 2” cried Ralph. 

“ A little on It,” said the girl, now pouting, 
now giggling. 

“ And you’ve seen nothing of the sort 2 
Upon your word and honor now, have you 2 ” 
and the footman tried to look winningly in the 
girl’s eyes, and held forth, appealing, his 
right hand. 

“ Nothing yet ; that is, nothing that I 
knows on,” was the guarded answer of the 
damsel. 

“ To be sure not. Now my opinion is, 
their’s more downright wickedness — more 
roguery and sin of all sorts in an acre of the 
country than in' any five miles of London 
streets ; only, we don’t kick up a noise about 
our virtue and all this sort of stuff. Whilst 
quite to the contrary the folks in the country 
do nothing but talk about their innocence, 
and all such gammon, eh 1” 

“ I can’t hear innocence called gammon 
afore me,” said the girl. “ Innocence is in- 
nocence, and nothing else ; and them as 
would alter it, ought to blush for themselves.” 

“ To be sure they ought,” answered Gum. 
“ But the truth is, because lambs don’t run 
about London streets — and birds don’t hop on 


THE HISTORY OF 


158 

the pavement — and hawthorns and honey- 
suckles don’t grow in the gutters — London’s 
a place of wickedness.. Now you know, my 
lily of the . valley, folks ani’t a bit more like 
lambs for living among ’em, are they ?” 

“ Is this the way to Mary Axe ?” asked 
the girl, with growing impatience. 

‘•Tell you, tisii’t no distance whatever, 
only first” — and the deceiver turned with liis 
victim out of the Strand— “ first you must 
pass Drury-lane playhouse.” 

“ The playhouse — really the playhouse !’* 
exclaimed the wench, with an interest in the 
institution that in these times would have 
sufficiently attested her vulgarity. “ I should 
like to see the playhouse.” 

Well then, my double heartsease^ here it 
is,” and Ralph with his finger pointed to tiie 
tremendous temple. With curious yet rever- 
ential looks, did the girl gaze upon the mys- 
terious fabric. It was delicious to behold 
even the outside of that brick and mortar 
rareeshow. And staring, the girl’s' heart 
was stirred with the thought of the wonders, 
the m/steries, acted therein. She had seen 
plays. Three times at least she had sat in a 
wattlebuilt fane, and seen the dramatic priest- 
hood in their hours of sacrifice. Pleasant, 
though confused, was her remembrance of 
the strange harmonies that filled her heart to 
overflowing — that took her away into another 
world — that brought sweet tears into her eyes 
— and made her think (she had never thought 
so before) that there was really something 
besides the drudgery of work in life ; that men 
and women were made to have some holiday 
thoughts — thoughts that breathed strange, 
comforting music, even to creatures poor and 
low as she. Then recollections flowed afresh 
as she looked upon that mighty London mys- 
tery — that charmed place that in day-dreams 
she had thought of — that had revealed its 
glorious, fantastic wonders in her sleep. The 
London playhouse ! She saw it — she could 
touch its walfg. One great hope of her rus- 
tic life was consummated and the greater 
would be accomplished. Yes: sure as her 
life, she would sit aloft in the gallery, would 
hear the music, and see the London players’ 
spangles. 

“ And this is Drury-lane 1 *’ cried the 
wench, softened by the thought — well ! I 
never !” 

“ You like plays, do you ? so do 1. Well, 
when we know one another a little better — 
for I wouldn’t be so bold as to ask it now — 
in course not — won’t we go together ?” said 
Ralph ; and the girl was silent. She did not 
inquire about St. Mary Axe ; but trustingly 
followed her companion, her heart dancing 
to the fiddles of Drury-lane ; the fiddles that 
she would hear. “And this is Bow-street-, 
my jessamy,”' said Ralph. 


“ What’s Bow-street ?” inquired the mai 
6den. How happy in the ignorance of the 
question ! 

“ Where they take up the thieves, and ex- 
amine ’em, afore they send ’em to Newgate 
to be hanged.” The wench shivered. “Never 
saw nobody hanged, I suppose ? Oh, it’s no- 
thing, after two or three times. Wee’l have a 
day of it, my sweet marjoram, some Monday. 
We’ll go to the Old Baily in the morning, 
and to the play at night : that’s what I call 
seeing life, — eh, you precious pink ! But, I 
say, arn’t you tired ?” 

“ Well, I just am. Where is Mary Axe ?’ 
And the girl stared about her. 

“ Why, if I havn’t taken the v/rong turn- 
ing, I ’m blest, and that ’s lost us half a mile 
and more. I tell you what we’ll do. This 
is a nice comfortable house.” Ralph spoke 
of the Brown Bear ; at that day, the house of 
ease to felons, on their transit from the oppo- 
site police office to Newgate. “ A quiet, re- 
spectable place. We’ll just go in and rest 
ourselves, and have atween us half-a-pint of 
ale.” 

“ Not a drop ; not for the blessed world,” 
cried the girl. ' 

“ And then. I’ll tell you all about the 
playhouse and the players. Bless you ! some 
of ’em come to our house, when the ser- 
vants give a party. And we make ’em sing 
songs and tell stories, and when they go 
away, why, perhaps we put a bottle of wine 
in their pockets — for, poor things ! they can’t 
afford such stuff at home, — and they send us 
orders, and we go into the pit for nothing. 
Ahd so, we’ll just sit down and have half-a- 
pint of ale, won't we ?” 

Silently tiie girl suffered herself to be led 
into the Brown Bear. The voice of the char- 
mer had entered her heart, and melted it. 
To hear about plays and players was to hear 
sweet music : to listen to one who knew-— 
who had spoken to the glorious London actors 
— who, perhaps, with his own hand had put 
wine bottles in their pockets — was to gain a 
stride in the world. The gossip would not 
delay her above half-an-hour from St. Mai^ 
Axe ; and what wonders would repay her for 
the lingering ! Besides, she was tired — 
and the young man was very kind — very re- 
spectful — nothing at all like what she had 
heard of London young men — and, after all, 
what was half-an-hour, sooner or later ? 

Mr. Ralph Gum intonated his orders like 
a lord. The ale was brought, and Ralph 
drank to the maiden with both eyes and lips. 
Liquor made him musical : and with a deli- 
cate compliment to the rustic taste of his fair 
companion, he warbled of birds and flowers. 
One couplet he trolled over again and again. 
“ Like what they call sentiment, don’t you ?” 
said Ralph. 

“ How can I tell ?” answered the girl ; 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


159 




't’s some of your fine London stuff, I sup- 
pDse. ” 

“ Not a bit on it ; sentiment’s sentiment all 
ov^er the world. Don’t you know what senti- 
ment is ? Well, sentiment’s words that’s put 
together to sound nicely as it were — to make 
you feel inclined to clap your hands, you 
know. And that’s a sentiment I’ve been 
singing ” — and he repeated the burden, bawl- 
ing ; . 

‘ Oh the cuckoo’s a fine bird as ever you did hear, 
And he sucks little birds’ eggs, to make his voice 
clear.’ 

• 

“ There ! don’t you see the sentiment now ?” 
The maiden shook her head. “ Why, sucking 
the little birds’ eggs — that’s the sentiment. 
Precious clever birds, them cuckoos, eh 1 
They’re what I call birds of quality. They’ve 
no trouble of hatching, they havn’t ; no trouble 
of going about in the fields, picking up worms 
and grubs for their nestlings : they places ’em 
out-to wetnurse ; makes other birds bring ’em 
up ; while they do nothing themselves but sit 
in a tree, and cry cuckoo all day long. Now, 
that’s what I call being a bird of quality. 
How should you like to be a cuckoo, my but- 
tercup ?” 

“ There, now, I don’t want to hear your 
nonsense. What’s a cuckoo to do with a 
Christian ?” — asked the damsel. 

“ Nothing, my passion-flower- — to be sure 
not; just wait a minute,” said Ralph — “I 
only want to speak to my aunt that lives a 
little way of; and I’ll be back with you in a 
minute. I’ve got a message for the old wo- 
man : and she’s such a dear creetur — so fond 
of me. And atween ourselves, whenever she 
should be made an angel of— and when a an- 
gel’s wanted, I hope she’ll not be forgotten — 
shan’t 1 have a lot of money ! Not that I 
care for money ; no, give me the girl of my 
heart, and all the gold in the world, as I once 
heard a parson say, is nothing but yellow dirt. 
And now I won’t be a minute, my precious 
periwinkle. ” 

And with this, Mr. Rilph Gum quitted the 
room, leaving the fair stranger, as he thought, 
in profoundest admiration of the disinterested- 
ness of footmen. 


CHAPTER XXX. - 

The country girl, alone in the Brown Bear, 
had some slight twitchings of remorse. She 
felt it; she had very much slandered London 
and Londoners. She had been taught — slie 
had heard the story in field and at fire-sides, 
seated in the shade of haystacks, and in win- 
ter chimney-corners — that London was a 
fiery furnace; that all its inhabitants, espe- 


cially the males, were the pet pupils of the 
Evil One, and did his work, with wonderful 
docility. And now, how much ignorance had 
departed from her ! In an hour or two, how 
large her stock of experience ! She was 
alone — alohe in a London tavern ; and yet 
she felt as comfortable, as secure of herself, 
as though perched upon a Kent haycock. 
She had seen thousands of people ; she had 
walked among a swarm of men and women, 
and nobody had even so much as attempted 
to pick her pocket ; nobody had even snatch- 
ed a kiss from her. With the generosity of 
a kind nature, she felt doubly trustful that 
she had unjustly doubted. She was in a Lon- 
don hotel (poor hawthorn innocence !) and 
felt not a bit afraid; on the contrary, she 
rather liked it. She looked about the room : 
carefully, up and down its walls. No ; there 
was not an inch of looking-glass to be seen. 
Otherwise she thought she might have liked 
to take a peep at herself ; for she knew she 
must be a fright ; and the young man would 
be back soon ; and though she cared not a 
pin about him — how could she ? — still, still 
she should have liked one look. 

“ What, my little girl, all alone ?” asked a 
new-comer — as the young woman thought, 
a very rude, and ugly, and somewhat old 
man. “ Got nobody with you, eh ? Where’s 
your parents ?” 

“ I ’m not alone, and that’s enough,” said 
the girl, and she firmly clutched her little 
bundle. 

“ Very well, my dear ; wouldn’t offend you 
my lass ; wouldn’t” — > 

“ I’m not your dear ; and I don’t want at 
all to be talked to by you.” Saying this, the 
girl continued to grasp her property, and look- 
ed with very determined eyes in the harsh, 
ugly face of the old intruder. The fact is, 
the girl feft that the time vvas come to test 
her energy and caution. She had too soon 
thought too well of the doings of London. 
The place swarmed with wicked people, there 
was no doubt of it ; and the man before hei 
was one of them. He looked particularly 
like a thief as he looked at her bundle. 

“That’s right; quite right, my little wench. 
This is a place in which you can’t be too 
particlar,” and saying this. Bright Jem — for 
it was the uncomely honesty of that good fel- 
low’s face that had alarmed the spinster — 
Bright Jem, with his mild, benevolent looky 
nodded, and passing to the further end of the 
room, seated himself in one of the boxes. 
And the girl felt more assured of his wicked- 
ness ; and anxiously wished the return of 
that very nice young footman — that honest, 
sweet-spoken young man — so long engaged 
in converse with his aunt. Would he never 
come back ? It was odd, but every moment 
of his absence endowed him, in the girl’s 
mind, with a new charm. Bright Jem was 


the history of 


all unconsciously despoiled of every good 
quality, that his graceless relative, Ralph 
Gum, might be invested with the foreign ex- 
cellence. 

Hark l a footstep. No ; it is not the foot- 
man: he still tarries with his aunt. It is 
Jerry Whistle, the Bow-street officer, with 
his daily flower between his lips ; his happy 
faee streaked like an apple ; and his cold, 
keen, twinkling eye that seemed continually 
employed as a search-warrant, looking clean 
through the bosoms of all men. He paused 
before the girl, taking an inventory of her 
qualities. And she, to repel the boldness of 
the fellow, tried to arm herself with one of 
those thunderbolt looks that women in her 
dignity will sometimes cast about her, striking 
giants off their legs and laying them in the 
dust for ever. Poor thing ! it was indigna- 
tion all in vain. She might as well have 
frowned at Newgate stones, expecting to see 
them tumble, as think to move one nerve of 
Jetry Whistle. Medusa, staring at that offi- 
cer, would have had the worst of it, and 
bashfully, hopelessly let drop her eyelids. 
And so it was with the country maiden. 
Jerry still stared : leaving the girl nothing to 
do but to wonder at his impudence. At 
length, however, Mr. Gum enters the room ; 
and Jerry, glancing at him, and, as the girl 
thought, very much awed by his presence, 
instantly moves away. 

“ Well, I’m so glad you’re come !” cried 
the girl, and her eyes sparkled, not unnoticed 
by the footman. 

“ Sorry, my daffydil, to keep you waiting ; 
but aunt is such a ’oman for tongue. A good 
cretur though ; what I call a reg’lar custard 
of a ’oman ; made o’ nothing but milk and 
spice and sugar.” 

“ What ! and no eggs ? Pretty custards 
they’d be,” cried the girl, with a smile of pity 
for the detected ignorance. 

“ That’s like you women,” said Mr. Gum, 
playfully twitching the girl’s bonnet-string ; 

“ you can’t allow for a bit of fancy : always 
taking a man up, and tying him to particlars. 
Well, you are a rose-bud, though !” 

“ Never mind : I know that : let us go to 
Mary Axe,” and she vigorously retied her 
bonnet strings, and stood bolt up. 

“In a minute. Just half-a-mouthful of 
brandy and water atween us ; just no more 
than would fill the eye of a little needle. You 
can’t think what a lot of morals my aunt al- 
ways talks : and you can’t think how dry they i 
always make me. Now, don’t shake your ; 
dear little head as if it was of no use to you : 1 
I tell you, we must have a little drop, and 1 
here it is.” (And Mr. Gum spoke the truth.) i 
“ I ordered it as I came in.” ] 

“ Not a blessed drop — I won’t, that I won’t, j 
as I’m a sinner,” cried the girl with feminine 1 
emphasis. i 


If “A sinner ! There was never a cherub on 
I a tombstone like you. I should like to hear 
. anybody call you a sinner — ’twould be a bad 
day’s work for ’em, I can tell you. Now, just 
a drop. Well, if you won’t drink, put your 
lips to the edge of the glass, just to sugar it.” 
“ Well, what a creetur you are !” said the 
girl ; and with cheeks a little flushed, she 
took a bird’s one sip of the liquor. 

“ Ha ! now it’s worth drinking,” cried 
Ralph ; and he backed his opinion % taking 
a long draught. “ And now,” said he, staring 
full in the girl’s face, and taking her hand, 
“ and now, as a particlar favor, 1 want you to 
tell me on^ thing; Just one private question 
I have to put. Look in my eyes, and tell me 
what you think of love.” 

‘ Go along with your rubbish !” exclaimed 
the girl ; at once cutting the difficulty of a 
definition. Love i Rubbish ! She knew it 
not ; but the wench spoke with the tongue of 
old philosophy. She gave a homely expres- 
sion to the thoughts of sages, anchorites and 
nuns. The shirt of hair, the iron girdle, the 
flagellating thong, all declare the worthless- 
ness of love. “ Love is rubbish,” chants the 
shaven monk : and the like treason breaths 
the white-lipped sister, and sometimes thinks 
it truth. The words are writ on monastery, 
convent walls, though dull and dim-eyed folks 
without do not believe them ; and — perverse 
is man ! — turn from the silver music of the 
syllables for jangling marriage-bolls. 

“ Ain’t you afeard the roof will tumble on 
you ? Love, rubbish ! Why, it’s what I call 
the gold band about natur’s hat,”— for liquor 
made the footman metaphorical. “ Love, my 
slip of lavender, love is” 

“ I don’t want to know nothing about it, and 
I wont stay a minute longer from Mary Axe.” 
And again the girl stood up, and began to 
push her way from the box, Mr. Ralph Gum 
refusing to give place, at the same time lif- 
ting the teaspoon from the glass, and vainly 
menacing her with it in the very prettiest 
manner. 

“ Well, my peppermint, you shall go ; to be 

sure you shall. There now ” And 

with determined swallow, Mr. Gum emptied 
the glass to prove his devotedness to her will. 

“ We’ll pay at the bar, my poppy. Don’t for- 
get your bundle. Got your best things in it, 
eh ? Don’t forget it, then.” 

A smile, with something of contempt in it, 

played about the maiden’s lip. Forget it ? 

as if any woman ever forgot a bundle, the 
more especially when it contained any of 
those vestments that, looked upon with 
thoughtful, melancholy eyes, are only flowing, 
shining proofs of a fallen state, though the 
perverse ingenuity of the sex contrives t» 
give a prettiness to the livery of sin, to the 
badges of our lapsed condition. When we 
remember that both sorts of millinery, mala 


/ 


I 

' ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 161 


and female, are the consequences of original 
wickedness, ought not the manly heart to 
shrink, and feel a frog-like coldness at an em- 
broidered waistcoat ? Ought not woman, 
smitten with the recollection of tlie treason 
of her great mother, to scream even*at the 
rustling of a pompadour, as at the moving 
scales of a gliding snake ? She ought ; but we 
fear she seldom does. Nay, sometimes she ac- 
tually loves — determinedly loves — fine clothes, 
as though she had first walked in Paradise, 
like a queen from a siesta, in velvet and bro- 
cade, with jewels in her hair, and court plas- 
ter stars upon her cheek. With heart-break- 
ing perverseness, she refuses to admit the 
naked truth to her soul, that the milliner came 
into the world with death. Otherwise, could 
philosophy with its diamond point engrave 
this truth upon the crystal heart of woman, it 
would very much serve to lessen pin-money. 
We have heard it said — of course we imme- 
diately wrapt our countenance in our cloak, 
and ran from the slander — that woman fell 
for no other purpose than to wear fine clothes. 
In the prescience which she shared with man 
she saw the looms of the future world at 
work, and lost herself for a shot sarsnet. It 
is just as possible, too, that some of her 
daughters may have tripped at the window of 
a mercer. 

We cannot at this moment put our finger 
upon the passage, but surely it is somewhere 
written in the Talmud, that Eve on leaving 
Eden already took with her a choice and very 
various wardrobe. yVe have entirely forgot- 
ten the name of tbe writer who gives a very 
precise account of the moving. Nevertheless, 
many of the details are engraved — as with 
pen of iron upon rock — on our heart. First 
came a score of elephants; they, marching 
with slow pace, carried our first mother’s 
gowns bestowed in wicker-work. To a hun- 
dred and fifty camels were consigned the 
caps .and ’kerchiefs. And our author, we 
remember, compassionately dwells upon a 
poor dromedary, — one of two hundred — that, 
overladen with bonnet-boxes, refused to get 
upon his legs until the load was lightened by 
half, and another hunchbacked beast appoint- 
ed to share the burden. Whole droves of 
ponies, that have since made their way to 
Wales and Shetland, carried shoes and silk 
stockings, (with the zodiac gold-worked for 
clocks,) and ruffs and wimples, and farthing- 
gales and hoods, and all the various artillery 
that down to our day, from masked batteries 
aim at the heart of heedless, unsuspecting, 
\ngenuous man, — weapons that, all unseen, 
do sometimes overthrow him ! And in this 
way, according to the Talmudist, did Eve 
move her wardrobe into the plain country ; 
and in so very short a time — so active is 
woman, with her heart like a silkworm, 
working for fine clothes — did our first moth- 


er get about her, what she, with natural 
meekness called, only a few things but 
which Adam — and at only the nine thous- 
andth package, with an impatient sulkiness 
that we fear has descended to some of his 
sons — denominated a pack of trumpery. If 
women, then, are sensitive in the matter of 
bundles, they inherit the tenderness from their 
first rosy mother. And our country wench, 
though we think she never read the Talmud, 
had an instinctive love for the fine clothes 
she carried with her. — An instinct given her 
by the same benificent law that teaches par- 
rots and cockatoos to preen their feathers. 

Whilst, with profane fingers — like an al- 
lowed shopman — we have twiddled with the 
legendary silks and muslins, and other webs 
the property of Eve ; whilst we have counted 
the robe-laden elephants, and felt our heart 
melt a little at the crying, eloquent pathos of 
the bonnet-crushed dromedary. Mr. Ralph 
Gum has paid for his liquor, and, his heart 
generous with alcohol, has stept into Bow- 
street. Glowing with brandy and benevo- 
lence, he heroically observed — “ Never mind 
the bundle. I don’t care if any of our fol^s 
do see me. So, my heart’s honeysuckle, 
take my arm.” And, with little hesitation — 
for now they could not be very far from St. 
Mary Axe — the girl linked herself to that 
meek footman. “ Don’t know What this place 
is, of course ? Covent-garden market, my blue^ 
bell. This is where we give ten guineas a 
pint for green peas, and” 

“ Don’t they choke you ?” cried the wench, 
astounded at what she thought a sinfulness 
of stomach. 

“ Go down all the sweeter,” answered the 
epicurean vassal. “ When they got to ten 
shillings a peck, they’re out of our square al- 
together ; only fit for pigs. Noble place, isn’t 
it ? Will you have a nosegay ? Not but 
what you’re all a nosegay yourself ; never- 
theless, you shall have something to sweeten 
you ; for that Mary Axe — well, I wouldn’t 
set you against it — but for you to live there; 
you, a sweet little cretur that smells of noth- 
ing but cow’s breath and new- mown hay ; — 
why, it’s just murder irr a low manner. So do 
have a nosegay;” and Mr. Gum insisted 
upon disbursing threepence for a bunch of 
wallflowers, which — against his wish and in- 
tention — she herself placed in her bosom. 
Then he said : ‘‘I do pity you, going to Mary 
Axe.” 

“ But I’m not a going to stay there,” said 
the girl : “ no — I’m only going to see master, 
and he’s to take me into the country, to live 
with sich a sweet young lady.” 

“ Well, there ’ll be a couple of you,” said 
Ralph, “ I ’m blessed if there wont. And 
whereabouts ?” 

“ Tliat’s telling,” replied the girl ; as 
though she stored up a profound secret in her 


162 


THE HISTORY OF 


heart, that it would take at least five minutes 
for Ralph’s picklock tongue to come at. 
This Ralph felt, so said no more about it. 

“And here, in this place, we make our 
Members for Westminster — things for Parlia- 
ment, you know.” 

“ How droll ! What should they bring ’em 
like turnips to market for ?” inquired the 
wench, wondering. 

“ Don’t you know ? Because they may be 
all the nearer the bad ’tatoes and the cabbage 
stumps. I'hat’s what our porter tells me is 
one of the rights of the constitution ; to pelt 
everybody as puts himself up to go into Par- 
liament. Well, Pve been done out of a nice 
chance, I have,” said the footman with sud- 
den melancholy. 

“ What do you mean f Not lost any- 
thing ?” and the girl looked sweetly anxious. 

“ Ain’t I, though ? You see, his lordship, 
my young master, went and stood in the 
country ; and I couldn’t go down with him. 
Now, if he’d only put up for Westminster, Pd 
just have come here in plain clothes, and 
dressing myself as if I was a blackguard, 

' shouldn’t he have known what bad ’tatoes 
was !” 

“ Why, you wicked cretur ! you wouldn’t 
have thrown ’em at him ?” 

“ Oh, wouldn't I though !” cried Mr. Gum, 
and he passed his tongue round his lips, en- 
joyingly. 

“ What for ? Is he sich a wicked master 
— sich a very bad man ?” inquired the girl. 

“ Don’t know that he is. Only you can’t 
think what a pleasure it is to get the upper 
hand of high folks for a little while ; and ’ta- 
toes and cabbage stumps do it. It’s a satis- 
faction, that’s all,” said the footman. 

“ I won’t walk with you — not another step,” 
and the wench angrily withdrew her arm. 

“ There you go, now ; there you go. Just 
like all you women ; if a man makes a harm- 
less joke,- — and that's all I meant — you 
scream as if it was a flash of lightning. Bless 
you ! I’d go to the world’s end for my master, 
even if I never was to see him again. That 
I would my sprig of parsley.” 

“ Is this the way to Mary Axe ? If I’m 
not there directly, I’ll ask somebody else.” 

“Just round this turning, and it’s no way 
at all.” And Mr. Gum went through the 
market, and through street after street, and 
threaded two or three courts, the girl looking 
now impatient, now distrustful. At length 
Ralph paused. “ My dear, if I havn’t left 
something at my aunt’s ! In that house, there ; 
just step in a minute, while I call for it.” 

“ No, I shan’t,” answered the wench, with 
a determination that somewhat startled Mr. 
Gum. “ I shan’t go into any house at all, 
afore I come to Mary Axe. And if you don’t 
show me the way directly, I’ll scream.” 


“ Why, what a little sweet-briar you are ! 
Don’t I tell you, my aunt lives there ? A 
nice, good old* soul, as would be glad to see 
you — glad to see anybody I brought to her. 
I tell you what, now, if I must say the truth, 
I told her what a nice girl you was ; and how 
you was waiting for me ; and the gopd old 
’oman began to scold me ; and asked me why 
I didn ’t bring you here. I shan’t stop a 
minute — not a rpinute.” 

The girl looked up in Ralph’s face ; look- 
ed up so trustingly, and again so innocently 
placed her arm in his, that the great-hearted 
footman must have felt subdued and honored 
by the confidence of his companion. And so 
he was about to hand her across his aunt’s 
threshold — he was about to bring her face to 
face with that venerable, experienced, yet 
most mild woman, — when, suddenly, he felt 
his right ear seized as by a pair of iron pin- 
cers, and the next moment he felt himself 
spinning round and round ; and the very next 
moment he lay tumbled in a heap upon the 
pavement. His heart bursting with indigna- 
tion, he looked up, and — somehow, again he 
felt another tumble, for he saw in his assail- 
ent Bright Jem, his mother’s brother-in-law ; 
the meddlesome, low fellow, that had always 
taken it upon himself to talk to him. A few 
paces distant, too, was Mr. Whistle, Bow- 
street officer, serenely turning his flower be- 
tween his lips, and with both his hands in his 
pockets, looking down upon the footman as 
though he was of no more account than a 
toadstool. Of course, the girl screamed as 
the assault was committed ; of course, for a 
few moments her rage against the ruffian, — 
the ugly man who had, and so like his impu- 
dence, spoken to her at the Brown Bear, — 
was deep and womanly. But suddenly the 
face of Mr. Gum grew even a little darker ; 
and the wench, though uo scholar, read trea- 
son in every black line. Hence, with grow- 
ing calmness she beheld Mr. Gum elaborately 
rub hhnself, as he slowly rose from the pave- 
ment. 

“ Who spoke to you ? What did you do 
that for ?” Such was the poor platitude that 
the smitten footman uttered : for guilt was at 
his heart ; detection weighed upon him, and 
he could not crow. 

“ Doesn’t his aunt live here ?” cried the 
girl. “ He said it was his aunt that wanted 
to see me ?” 

“ The only aunt he ever had,” said Bright 
Jem, “ is in heaven ; and— I know it— she’s 
a blushing for him at this very minute. I 
say. Whistle, couldn’t we help him to a little 
Bridewell for all this ?” 

Mr. Whistle, shifting his flower to the cor- 
ner of his mouth, was about to say something ; 
but it was clear that Mr. Gum had not at the 
moment either taste or leisure td attend to 


8T, GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


163 


legal opinions. He therefore took to his 
heels ; and he never ran so fast, because 
perhaps, he never felt so little as he ran. 

“ Now, wasn’t 1 right, Whistle ? And didn’t 
I say that there was mischief in him ? And 
wasn’t it lucky we followed him from the 
Bear ? Well, he has a nice crop of wicked- 
ness, hasn’t he ?” Thus spoke Bright Jem, 
with a face of wonder. He was one of those 
unfortunate people — though he himself con- 
sidered his happy superiority to arise from 
the circumstance — who had seen so much 
wickedness, that any amount of eccentricity 
of evil failed to surprise him. He therefore 
twirled the flower in his mouth, and remarked 
a little plaintively — “ Why was you so quick ? 
If you’d only had patience, we might have 
sent him to Bridewell; and now, you’ve 
spoilt it all — spoilt it all.” With these words, 
and a brief shadow of disappointment on his 
brow, the officer departed. 

“ Poor little soul !” cried Jem, taking the 
girl’s hand, and looking paternally in her face 
— “ where did you come from — and where 
are you going to ? Come, you’ll answer me, 
now, won’t you ?” 

“ I come from Kent, and I ’m going to 
Mary Axe. That young man, I thought, was 
taking me the way” — 

“Poor little lamb! You wouldn’t think 
he was old enough for so big a villain ; but 
somehow, he’s been reared in a hot-bed, and 
has spindled up ’stonishingly. He ’s my 
wife’s sister’s child, and I will say this for 
his father ; he was as good and as honest a 
nigger as ever a Christian white man stole 
to turn a penny with. But we can’t send 
goodness down from father to son ; it can’t 
be willed away, like the family spoons. 
‘Virtue,’ as Mr. Capstick says, ‘like vice, 
doesn’t always descend in a right line ; but 
often goes in a zigzag.’ ” 

The girl was an attentive listener ; but we 
fear did not perfectly understand the uttered 
philosophy. She, however, felt that she had 
'been snatched from peril by the interference 
of the old and ugly-looking man before her, 
and gratitude and Confidence.^ stirred in her 
woman’s heart. “ Bless you, sir ; I was very 
uncivil, but I thought — that is — Pm in such 
a tremble — can you take me to Mary Axe ? 
I’m going to a place. Perhaps you know 
the gentleman — Mr. Snipeton ? I mean 
Mrs. Snipeton, his beautiful young wife ?” 

Jem stared, and marvelled at the strange- 
ness of the accident. He, however, owned 
to no acquaintance with the fortunate owner 
of the lady. “ Take my arm,” he said, “ and 
I ’ll leave you at the very door.” With this 
Jem proceeded onward, and at length turned 
into Long Acre. Passing the door of Cap- 
stick — for we believe we have already in- 
formed the reader that the member for 
Liquorish had taken humble lodgings in that 


district — the door opened, and the senator 
himself, with no less a person than Mr. 
Tangle, attorney-at-law, advanced to the 
threshold. 

“ Eh, Jem ! What’s this ? A thing from 
the buttercups ? Where did you pick it up ?” 
cried Capstick. Now the wench was no 
grammarian, yet she - seemed to have a born 
knowledge that “ if' applied to one of the fe- 
male gender was alike a violation of grammar 
and good-breeding. Therefore she echoed 
“ it” between her teeth, with of course a sig- 
nificant tossing of the head. 

Jem observed the working of the feminine 
mind, and immediately whispered to the girl 
— “ He’s my master and a member of Parlia- 
ment ; but the best cretur in the world.” 
Jem then in a bold voice informed the sena- 
tor that “ the young ’oman was come up from 
the country to go to service at Mr. Snipe- 
ton’s.” 

“ Bless me I what a very strange accident ! 
Come to Mr. Snipeton’s, eh ? How very 
odd !” cried Tangle, feeling that he ought to 
speak. 

In the meantime Bright Jem, with com- 
mendable brevity, whispered to Capstick the 
history of his meeting with the gentle way- 
farer. “ Well, and she looks an innocent 
thing,” said Capstick, his face scarlet with 
indignation at Jem’s story. “ She looks in- 
nocent ; but after all, she ’s a woman, Jem ; 
and women can look whatever they like. 
They’ve a wonderful way of passing pocket- 
pieces for virgin gold. I don’t believe any of 
’em ; nevertheless, Jem, run for a coach ; 
and as Mr. Tangle and myself are going to 
Snipeton’s, we can all go together. I dare say, 
young woman, you’re tired of walking ? 
You look so ; if, as I say, looks are anything. 
Jem, run for the coach. Come up stairs ?” 
And with this invitation, Capstick gently 
clasped the arm of the maiden — a little awe- 
struck that she felt the pressure of that mys- 
terious creature, a live member of Parlia- 
ment — and led her, ascending, to his room. 
Mr. Tangle followed, much scandalised at 
the familiarity of the legislator ; and fortify- 
ing himself with the determination, not, with- 
out a vehement remonstrance, to ride in the 
same liackney-coach with a maid-of-all- 
work. 

Mr. Capstick had, he was accustomed to 
declare, furnished his room with a vigilant 
eye to his dutiqs as a member of parliament. 
Over his mantel-piece \yas Magna Charta, 
framed and glazed. “ A fine historic fiction,” 
he would say ; “ a beautiful legend ; a nice 
sing-song to send men to sleep, like the true 
and tragical history of Cock Robin chaunted 
i to children.” He was wont to chuckle might- 
j ily at the passage — a fine stretch of fancy he 
1 would call it — about “ selling or deferring 
I justice, and vow it ought to be written in blood- 


164 


THE HISTORY OF 


red letters in the Court of Chancery. “ There 
is tine, grave comedy, in this sheet, sir, an 
irony that strengthens the nerves like a steel 
draught. They ought to hang it up on board 
the Tower Tender ; ’t would make pretty rea- 
ding for the free-born Englishman, kidnapped 
from wife and children to tight, and to be cut 
into a hero to vomit songs about, by the grace 
of the cat.” And in this irreverent, rebellious 
fashion would the Member for Liquorish talk 
of Magna Charta. He called it a great na- 
tional romance ; and never failed to allude to 
it as evidence of the value of tine fiction upon 
a people. “ Because it ought to be true,” he 
would say, “ they think it is.” 

And the misanthrope member had odd nick- 
nack toys ; and all, as he said, to continually 
remind him of his duties as a senator and a ci- 
tizen. He had a model of George the Third’s 
new drop in mahogany. “ One of the insti- 
tutions of my country, he would say, “ impro- 
ved under the reign of my gracious sovereign. 
Some folks hang up the royal portrait. Now 
I prefer the works of a man to his looks. 
Every ordinary morning I bow once to that 
engiiie as a type of the wisdom and philan- 
thropy of a Christian land ; once on common 
occasions, and three times on hanging days.” 
Besides this, he had a toy pillory ; with a dead 
mouse fixed, and twirling in it. “ And when 
I want an unbending of the immortal mind 
within me — by the way,” Capstick once said 
to Tangle, “ what a bow we do sometimes 
make of the immortal mind, the better to shoot 
at one another with — when I want to unbend 
a little, I place the pillory before me and pelt 
the mouse with cherry-stones and crumbs. 
And you wouldn’t believe it, but it does me 
quite as much good — quite as much — as if the 
dead mouse was a living man, and the stones 
and crumbs were mud and eggs.” 

There were other fantastic movables which, 
for the present, we must pass. Mr, Capstick, 
to the astonishment of Tangle, approached a 
corner cupboard, taking therefrom a decanter 
of wine and a glass. “ You are tired, young 
woman ; and sometimes a little of this — just 
a little — is medicine to the weary.’’ He then 
poured out the wine ; which the wench obe- 
diently swallowed. Had it been t^e most 
nauseous drug, there was such a mixture of 
kindness and authority in the manner of the 
member of parliament, — the physic must have 
gone down. 

“ Mr. Capstick, one word,” said Tangle, 
and he drew the' senator to a corner of the 
room. “ Doubtless, I made a mistake. But 
you know we have important business to 
transact : and no, you never intend to go to 
Mr. Snipeton’s in the same coach with that 
gentleman’s niaid-of-all-work ?” 

“ She won’t bite, will she ?” asked Cap- 
stick. 

“ Bite !” echoed Tangle. 


“ Coach is at the door, sir,” said Bright 
Jem, entering the room. 

“ Go you first,” said Capstick to Tangle 
in a tone not to be mistaken ; “ I’ll bring the 
young woman.” And if Tangle had been 
really a four-footed dog, he would, as he went 
down stairs, have felt a great depression of 
the caudal member, whilst the senatorial 
muffin-maker tript after him with the ignomi- 
nious maid-of-all-work. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

For some days Snipeton had half resolved 
to surprife his wife with a present ; a dear 
and touching gift, — the miniature of her far- 
ther. Again and again he had determined 
upon the graceful act ; and as often put the 
expensive thought aside — trod the weakness 
down as an extravagant folly. And then it 
would occur to his benevolence, that he might 
make a bargain with himself, and at the same 
time impart a pleasure to his spouse. The 
miniature was enriched with diamonds ; — 
first-water gems, he knew, for he had lent 
gold upon them ; though his wife — at the 
time of the loan she was yet unmanabled — 
was unconscious of the ready money kind- 
ness. Her fatlier had withered, died, in the 
clutch of the usurer ; who still cherished the 
portrait of the dead man — it was so very dear 
to him. The picture had been a bridal pre- 
sent to Clarissa’s mother ; it had lain warm 
in her wedded bosom ; though Snipeton, when 
he grasped the precious security, knew no- 
thing of its history. Well, he would certain- 
ly delight Clarissa with this sweet remem- 
brance of her father. She knew not of its 
existence, and would bless and love her hus- 
band for his sudden goodness. He w^ould 
give the wife the miniature; it was settled : 
he would do it. “ What ! with the diamonds ?” 
cried Snipeton’s careful genius, twitching 
his heartstrings, to pull him up in his head- 
long course. “ With the diamonds, Ebene- 
zer Snipeton? Are you grown lunatic — 
doting ? Diamonds, eternal diamonds— dia- 
monds everlasting as the sun — the spiritual- 
ised essence of Plutus — diamonds for one 
flickering look ; for one sic}{ sm.ile from wi- 
thering lips ? Have you forgotten the worth 
of wealth ? Lost man ! are you suddenly 
dead to arithmetic ? Give diamonds to your 
wife ] Pooh ! pooh ! As women love any- 
thing that glitters— and as moreover they 
love Jack-o’-lanthorns just as well as hea- 
ven’s own stars — don’t throw away the real 
treasure ; but mock it ; sham it ; pass off a 
jeweller s lie, and let the picture blaze with 
the best and brightest paste. He’s a fool 
who throws pearls to pigs, and thinks the 
pork will eat the richer for the treasure.—* 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


165 


He’s no less a fool who showers diamonds 
upon his wife when, knowing no better, paste 
will make her just as grateful.” And Snipe- 
ton gave all His ears to this scoundrel genius 
that lived in his heart like a maggot in a nut, 
consuming and rotting it. There vve re times, 
though, when the genius slept ; and then 
Snipeton — ignorant, unadvised man — was 
determined to be honest, generous. He would 
not countenance the fraud of false setting. 
No ; his bird of Paradise ; his lamb ; his dar- 
ling Clarissa ; the queen flower in his life’s 
garden — for she was this and all of these — 
should have the diamonds. Besides, if given 
to her, they were still his own ; for accord- 
ing to the sweet rights of a husband, property 
so bestowed — with no parchment to bind it 
— might at any day be reclaimed by the law- 
ful lord. After all, it was but lending his 
wife the diamonds ; though — gentle simple- 
ton ! — she might still be tickled with the 
thought that they were wholly hers. 

It was the morning after the visit of Cross- 
bone ; and Snipeton seated betimes at his 
cottage window — his eye first wandering 
among some flowers — his wife’s only chil- 
dren as he once bitterly called them — and at 
length fixed upon the labors of a bee that 
toiled among the blossoms, taking sweet per- 
centage for its honey bank : it was at such 
a time that Snipeton again pondered on the 
diamonds. Again he revolved the special 
pleading of his thrifting genius; again at- 
tended to the counter-reasoning of his affec- 
tions ; allowing that he had them, and again 
allowing that affections do reason. He 
watched the bee — conscientious porter ! — 
load itself to its utmost strength, and then 
buzz heavily through the casement. The 
insect had taken all it could carry. Wise, 
frugal man-teaching insect. No : Snipeton 
would not give the diarrionds. He would 
keep all he could : in his own grasp. All. 
And the determination, like a cordial, might- 
ily comforted him. 

At this moment Clarissa entered the room 
from her chamber. Snipeton suddenly rose 
as to' an angelic visitor. His wife looked as 
beautiful — so very beautiful. With such 
new sweetness in her face ; such beaming 
mildness in her eyes ; there was such grace 
in her motion, that love and vanity swelled 
in the old man’s heart ; and his hand strange- 
ly trembled as it greeted her. His prudential 
genius was on the sudden paralysed and 
dumb. Clarissa looked at her husband, as 
he thought, never before so lovinp:ly — and for 
the moment, the miser glowed with 'the prod- 
igal. 

Why, you are better, love ; much better. 
Even Crossbone’s talk has revived you. Ha ! 
and we’ll have this horse, and straightway : 
and — and the rose of my life will bloom again. 
Look here, my love.” It was done : even at 


the last spasm of the heart it cost, but it was 
over. The miniature — that diamond circled 
piece of ivory and paint — was in Clarissa’s 
hand. Astonished, happy, she said no word, 
but kissed the sudden gift ; again and again 
kissed it, and her tears flowed. “ I have often 
thought — indeed, have long determined to 
give it you,” cried Snipeton, 

“ Thank — thank you, dear sir. Indeed, 
you have made me very happy,” answered his 
wife. 

His wife ! Did she answer like his wife ? 
Was it the voice of his twin soul — did the 
flesh of his flesh move with her lips ? Was 
it his other incorporate self that spoke ? Did 
he listen to the echoes of his own heart ; or 
to the voice of an alien ? When the devil 
jealousy begins to question, how rapid his 
interrogations ! 

“ I will tell you,” said Snipeton, “ I repeat 
— I have all along determined that you should 
have it; in good season, have it. Your fa- 
ther’s picture, who with so great a right to 
it ? He told me ’twas once your mother’s. 
She wore it till her death. Poor thing ! He 
must have loved her very dearly. When he 
spoke of her, and never willingly, he would 
tremble as with the ague.” Clarissa bowed 
her head ; was silent ; and again kissed the 
picture. “ This fondness — these tears, Cla- 
rissa, must — if spirits know such matters — 
be precious to your father, now once more 
joined with your mother in heaven. Why, 
what’s the matter ? So pale — so lily white ; 
what is it, love ?” 

“ Nothing, sir : nothing, but the surprise 
— the joy at this gift,” faintly answered Cla- 
rissa. 

“ Well, I see, it has delighted you. I hoped 
so. Much delighted you : very much. You 
have kissed the picture fifty times, Clarissa. 
Is it not fifty — or have I falsely counted ? — 
Tell me. Fifty —is it not ?” 

“ I cannot tell, sir,” replied the wife tinjid- 
ly. “ Can they — ought they to be counted ?” 

“ Why — but then, I am a cold arithmeti- 
cian — I can count them ; at least, all that 
Hll to my lips. Can you not tell the number 
vouchsafed to the gift ? Strange ! I can 
count, ay, every one, bestowed upon the giv- 
er.” Mournfully, and with some bitterness, 
did Snipeton speak. His wife, with a slight 
tremor — suppressed by strong, sudden will — 
approached him. Pale, shuddering victim ! 
with mixed emotions fighting in her face, she 
bowed her head, and placing her cold arms 
about the old man’s neck, she closed her eyes 
and kissed his lips. 

“ Indeed, sir, I thank you. Pardon me ; 
indeed I thank you for this and all your good- 
ness.” She felt relieved ; she had paid the 
demanded debt. 

And Snipeton — poor old man ! — was he 
made happy by that caress ? How much reai. 




I 


1G6 


THE HISTORY OF 


love was in it ? How much truth ? How 
much liypocrisy ? Or at the best, enforced 
obedience ? It came not from the heart : no ; 
it wanted blood and soul. It was not the fiery 
eloquence of love, telling a life’s devotion 
with a touch. It was not that sweet com- 
muning of common thoughts, and common 
affections ; that deep, that earnest, and yet 
placid interchange of wedded soul with soul. 
In his heart, as in a crucible, the old man 
sought to test that kiss. Was it truth, or 
falsehood ? And as he pondered — how mys- 
teriously are we fashioned ! — a thing of forty 
years ago rose freshly to his mind. What 
iDrought it there ? — yet, there it was. The fi- 
gure, the face of one who with proved perjury 
at his lips kissed the book, swearing the oath 
was true. 

Clarissa saw her husband suddenly dash 
with gloomy thoughts. They reproached 
her ; and, instinctively, she returned to the 
old man’s side, and laying her hand upon his 
brow — had the hand been a sunbeam, it had 
not lighted the face more suddenly, brightly, 
-—she spoke to him very tenderly : “ Are you 
not well, sir?” 

“ Quite well ; always well, Clarissa, wilh 
you at my side — with you as even now.” — 
And she looked so cheerful, yes, so affection- 
ate, — he had wronged her. He was a fool — 
an exacting fool — with no allowance for the 
natural reserve, the unconquerable timidity, 
of so gentle a creature. “ And, as I was say- 
ing, you are better ; much better ; and we ’ll 

have this horse ; and but. Clary, love, 

we have forgotten breakfast.” Resolved up- 
on a full meal, Snipeton moved to the table ; 
and whilst he strove to eat, he talked quite 
carelessly, and, by the wa}^, of a mat|er that 
a little disturbed him. “ And how do you find 
Mrs. Wilton, eh, dearest ?” 

Clarissa, with troubled looks, answered 
— “ Find her, sir ? Is she not all we could 
wish ?” 

“ Oh, honest, quiet, and an excellent house- 
keeper, no doubt. Do you know her story ?” 

“ Story, sir ?” and Clarissa trembled as she 
spoke. “ What story ?” 

“v Her story ? Has she not one ? Everybo- 
dy, it’s my opinion, has ; but here ’s the rub : 
everybody won’t tell it, can’t tell it, mus’n’t 
tell it. Is it not so ?” 

“ It is never my thought, sir ; my wish to 
question your experience. You know the 
world, you say. For my part, I never wish 
to know it. My hope is, to die in my ignor- 
ance.” 

“ True ; you are right ; T would have it so. 
For it is a knowledge that — but no matter. 
My learning shall serve for both. Well, she 
never told you her story ?” With this Snipe- 
ton looked piercingly at his wife, who at first 
answered not. At length she asked, “ Do 
you know it, sir ?” 


“ No : but it is plain she has a story. I am 
firm in the faith.” 

“ Some grief — some sacred sorrow, per- 
haps,” said Clarissa. “ We should respect it ; 
should we not ?” 

“ Why, grief and sorrow are convenient 
words, and often do duty for sin and shame,” 
cried Snipeton. 

“ Sin and shame are grief and sorrow, or 
should be so,” replied Clarissa, mournfully. 

“ Humph ! Well, perhaps they are. How- 
ever, Mrs. Wilton’s story is no affair of ours,” 
said Snipeton. 

“ Assuredly not,” cried Clarissa, quickly. 

“ But her melancholy is. ’Tis catching ; 
and infects you. Her bad spirits, her gloom, 
seem to touch all about her with mildew. A 
bad conscience — or a great grief — ’tis no 
matter which, throws a black shadow about 
it ; and lo come at once to my meaning, Cla- 
rissa, I think Mrs. Wilson had better quit.” 

“ Oh, sir !” exclaimed Clarissa. “ ’Twould 
break her heart — it would indeed, sir.” 

“ It ’s wonderful how long people live, ay, 
and enjoy themselves, too, with broken hearts, 
Clarissa. I ’ve often thought broken hearts 
were like broken china : to be put nicely to- 
gether again, and — but for the look of the 
tiling — to be quite as useful for all house- 
work as before. Now Mrs. Wilton’s heart” — 

“ Do not speak of it. If — if you have any 
love for me, sir” — cried Clarissa. 

If 1 have love ! Well, what think you ? 
Have I not — even a few minutes since — given 
good proof?” It was somewhat distasteful 
to the old man, that after the gift of such dia- 
monds, his love could be doubted. He had 
better have listened to his good, his wise, his 
profitable genius, and presented paste. How 
many wives — however badly used and indus- 
triously neglected — would still bestow their 
love ! Now he, even with diamonds, could 
not buy it. For his wife to doubt his love, 
was to refuse her own. This his philosophy 
made certain. And this, after the diamonds ! 

“ Nay, I am sure of your love, sir; certain; 
most confident,” said Clarissa, very calm in 
such assurance. “ And therefore know you 
will refuse me nothing. Eh, dear sir ?” 

Again Snipeton’s heartstrings relaxed ; 
again, listening to the music of the enchant- 
ress, his darker thoughts began to pass away, 
and his soul enjoyed new sunlight. “ No- 
thing-nothing,” he said, “ that is healthful.” 

“ Then promise me that Mrs. Wilton shall 
rhmain. Indeed, you know not how much I 
have learned of her ; how much she loves me ; 
how much she respects you.” 

“ Respect is a cold virtue, I know, Claris- 
sa ; very cold. Now, with her ’tis freezing. 
I sometimes think she looks at me, as though 
— but I ’ll say no more. She blights your spi- 
rits ; darkens your thoughts with her sorrow 
of her sin, or whatever it may be ; and, in a 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


167 


word, she shall stay no longer. I am re- 
solved.” 

“ Blights me ! Darkens my thoughts ! — 
Oh , sir, I would you heard her talk. I would 
ou knew the pains she takes to make me 
appy ; to make me cheerful ; to place all 
things in the happiest light, shedding, as she 
does, the beauty of her spirit over all. Doubt- 
less, she has suffered, but” 

“ But — but she goes. I am resolved, Cla- 
rissa ; she goes. Resolved, I say.” 

And Ebenezer Snipeton struck the table 
with his fist; and threw himself back in his 
chair, as, he believed, a statue of humanity, 
hardened by resolution into flint. And very 
proud he felt of the petrefaction. Nor light- 
nings, nor thunderbolts should melt or move 
him. 

Clarissa — her suit was for a mother — rose 
from her chair, and stood beside her hus- 
band’s. She threw her arms about his neck. 
Flint as he was he felt they were not so lump- 
ish, clay-like, as when last they lay there. — 
“ Dear sir ; you ’ll not refuse me this ? — 
you’ll not refuse me ?” And Clarissa for 
once looked full in the eyes of her husband. 

“ Resolved,” said Snipeton, thickly ; and 
something rose in his throat. “ Resolved.” 

“ No ; no. You must promise me — you 
shall not leave me without,” and the arms 
'pressed closer; and the flint they embraced 
became soft as any whetstone. “ You^will 
not deprive me of her solicitude — her affec- 
tion ?” Snipeton answered not ; when Cla- 
rissa — in such a cause, what cared she for 
the sacrifice ? — stooping, kissed her husband 
with a deep and fervent affection for her mo- 
ther. And the statue was suddenly turned to 
thrilling flesh ; had the old man’s heart been 
stuck with thorns, his wife’s lips would have 
drawn them all away, and made it beat with 
burning blood. The man was kissed for an 
old woman ; but he set the rapture to his own 
account, and was directly rich with imagin- 
ary wealth. Need we say the man consent- 
ed ? What otherwise could strong resolution 
do ? 

A new man, with a newer, brighter world 
beaming about him, Snipeton that day de- 
parted from his rustic home to St. Mary Axe. 
His wife seemed to travel with him, he was 
so haunted by her looks of new-born love. — 
And now he hummed some ancient, thought- 
less song ; and now he smacked his lips, as 
with freshened recollection of the touch that 
^lad enriched them. The mist and cloud of 
doubt that had long hung about his life had 
passed away, and he saw peacefulness and 
beauty clearly to the end.^And these thoughts 
went with him to his dark and dismal city 
nook, and imparted deeper pleasures even to 
the bliss of money-making. 

This once, at least, St. Giles was in luck. 
A few minutes only after Snipeton’s arrival. 


with his new happiness fresh upon him, the 
young mam presented hims^f with a letter 
from Crossbone. “ He looks an honest fel- 
low ; a very honest fellow,” thought Snipe- 
ton, eyeing him. “ ’Tis a bad world ; a 
wicked world ; yet, when all ’s said, there’ 
are some honest people ; yes, there must be 
some.” And this charitable thought en- 
hanced for the nonce St. Giles. He could 
not have come in happier season. “ Humph ! 
and you have known Mr. Crossbone some 
time^ To be sure, he told me, from a child. 
And your father was killed, trying to do 
good ? That’s hard ; plaguey hard ; for 
people arn’t often killed in that humor. And 
you’ve been kind — very kind to your mother ? 
Well, that’s something ; I think I may trust 
you. Yes : you may consider yourself en- 
gaged. When can you come ?” 

“ Directly, sir,” said St. Giles ; who had 
been duly impressed by Crossbone with the 
necessity of obtaining Snipeton’s patronage ; 
it was so very essential to the happiness of 
his lordship. “ Be vigilant, be careful,” — 
thus had run the apothecary’s counsel, “ and 
his lordship will make a man of you ?” 
What a golden prospect for one who, with 
the hopes and worthy desires of a man, 
knew himself to be a social wolf in the 
human fold ; a thing fo be destroyed, hung 
up ; a wliolesome example to runaway vaga- 
bonds. To be made a man of, what a load 
must he lay down ! What a joy, a blessing, 
to stand erect in the world — and be allowed 
to meet the eyes of men witii confiding looks. 
Now, he crept and crawled ; and felt that his 
soul went upon all-fours. Now, he at times 
shrunk from a sudden gaze, as from a drawn 
knife. And his lordship would make a man 
of him! Glorious labor, this ; divine handi- 
work ! And there is plenty of such labor, 
too, in this broad world, if we had but the 
earnest-hearted workers to grapple with it. 
How many thousand thousands of human 
animals ; creatures of outward humanity ; 
beings on two legs, are yet to be made men 
of ! Again, what is a man ? You, reader, 
may possibly have a pretty correct notion of 
what he is, or ought to be : now, Mr. Cross- 
bone’s ideal of a perfect man was but of a 
perfect rascal. He would make a man as he 
would have made a gin, a trap ; the more 
perfect the snare, the nobler tl^ humanity. 
And in this sense was St. Giles to be elevated 
into a man for the direct advantage of the 
young lord, and the supplementary benefit of 
the apothecary. And St. Giles himself — it 
must not be forgotten — had some misgivings 
of the model-excellence after which he was 
to be fashioned. It just passed through his 
brain that the man he was to be made, might 
be a man, if not nearer to the gallows than 
himself, at least a man more deserving (it 
any deserved it) the elevation. There seemec 


THE HISTORY OF 


/ 


liiS 


to him new peril to be made a man of. Yet, 
what could he ,do ? Nothing. He must 
wait ; watch ; and take the chances as they 
fell, 

Snipeton read the letter. Nothing could 
have fallen out so luckily. A friend of 
Crossbone’s — a man of honor, though he 
dealt in horseflesh — had a beautiful thing to 
sell; a thing of lamb-like gentleness and 
beauty. The very thing for Mrs. Snipeton, 
A mare that might be reined with a thread 
of silk. Moreover, Mr. Snipeton might Jiave 
the beast at his own price; and that, of 
course, would be next to no price at all. 

“ Do you understand horses, my man ?” 
asked Snipeton, as he finished the letter. 

“ Why, yes, sir,” answered St. Giles ; and 
he must have answered yes, had the question 
been unicorns. 

“ Well, then” — but at this moment, Snipe- 
ton’s man brought in the names of Capstick 
and Tangle. To the great relief of St. Giles, 
he was ordered into an adjoining room, there 
to wait. He withdrew as the new visitors 
entered, 

“ Mr. Snipeton, this — this” — why did Cap- 
stick pause ? — “ this gentleman is Mr. Tangle, 
attorney” — 

“ Solicitor,” was Mr. Tangle’s meek cor- 
rection. “It’s of no consequence, but — 
solicitor.” 

“ Pooh, Pooh ! It isn’t my way, sir. I 
always say ‘ attorney,’ and then we know the 
worst,” said Capstick. 

“ I have heard of Mr. Tangle. We never 
met before — but his reputation has reached 
me,” sneered Snipeton. . 

“ Reputation, sir,” observed Capstick, “ is 
sometimes like a polecat ; dead or alive, its 
odor will spread.” 

“ Very true ; it is ; it has,” was the cor- 
roboration of Snipeton ; and Tangle, though 
he tried to smile, fidgetted uneasily. 

“ You are, perhaps, not aware, Mr, Snipe- 
ton, that a petition is to be presented to the 
House of Commons — my House — for the 
purpose of turning out its present patriotic 
member for Liquorish,” said Capstick. 

“ Indeed ! Upon what ground ?” inquired 
Snipeton. 

“ Bribery. Would you imagine it ? Could 
you think it? Charge me with bribery!” 
said the member. 

“ Pardon me. Not you ; oh, by no means ! 
We never do that We’re not so ill-bred. 
No, sir, the crime — ^that is, the statutable 
crime — for morals and statutes, sir, are some- 
times very difierent things — the crime of 
bribery is laid at the door of Mr. Capstick’s 
agents. His agents, sir,” said Tangle. 

“ I had none : none whatever. It is my 
pride — if, indeed, a man should be proud of 
anything in this dirty, iniquitous world — a 
world of flip-flaps and somersets — my pride, 


that I was returned purely upon my own 
j merits ; if, indeed, I have merits ; a matter I 
am sometimes inclined to doubt, when I wake 
I up from my first sleep. I go into Parliament 
I upon bribery ! I should think myself one big 
blotch — a human boil. No ; I can lay my 
I hand upon my breast — just where I carry my 
pocket-book — and answer it, before the world, 
—except the price of the hackney coach that 
carried me to the House, my seat didn’t cost 
me sixpence.” 

“ Ha, Mr. Capstick !” cried Tangle, half 
closing his eyes ; “ you don’t know what 
friends you had.” 

“ Yes, sir, I do ; for I have been intimate 
with them all my life. Integrity, honor, out- 
speaking” — Capstick paused ; and the 
next moment blushed, as though detected in 
some gross fault The truth is, he was 
ashamed of himself for the vain-boasting. 
Integrity and honor ! Supposing that he had 
them — what then ? Was it a matter to make 
a noise about ? Capstick blushed ; then 
hurriedly said — “ I beg your pardon. Go on 
with the bribery.” 

“ And so they want to turn you out, eh ?” 
cried Snipeton. “ The house of St. James 
can’t swallow the muffin-maker. Ha ! ha ! 
I can only wish you had been a chimney- 
sweeper. ’Twould have been a sweeter 
triumph.” 

“ I am quite contented, Mr. Snipeton,” said 
Capstick, majestically, “ as it is. Not that, 
as one of the social arts, I despise chimney- 
sweeping. By no means. For there may be 
cases in which it would not be such dirty 
work to clean folk’s chimneys, as to sweep 
their pockets.” 

“ True ; very true,” said Snipeton, who 
never selfishly took a sarcasm to himself, 
when, as he thought, so many of his fellow- 
creatures well deserved it. “ And so to the 
bribery. We must meet this petition.” 

“ I thought so ; and therefore waited upon 
Mr. Capstick to offer my professional ser- 
vices, You see, sir, I have peculiar advan- 
tages — very peculiar. For although, by that 
unfortunate and most mysterious robbery of 
the gold, the bribery — on the part of his lord- 
ship — was limited, rather limited ; neverthe- 
less, I have here, sir — here” — and Tangle 
tapped at his breast — “ such facts, that” — 

“ I see,” said Snipeton ; “ and you’ll turn 
yourself inside out to oblige us ?” 

“ I am a free agent ; quite free. Being no 
longer his lordship’s legal adviser — you 
wouldn’t think that that paltry box of gold 
could have parted us ; but so it is — there is no 
gratitude in the great ; — being, as I say, free, 
sir ; and in the possession of secrets” — 

“ If you want a cheap pennyworth of dirt, 
you can buy it, you can buy it,” said Cap- 
stick. 

“ Mr. Capstick !” exclaimed Tangle with 


/ 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


]G9 


a. darkly solemn face, " Mr. Capsfick” — but 
the attorney thought it not prohtable to be 
indignant ; therefore he suffered a smile to 
overflow his cheek, as he said — Mr. Cap- 
stick, you’re a wag.” But Tangle had in 
this a secret consolation : for in his legal 
opinion he had as good as called the muffin- 
maker “thief and liouse-breaker.” Tangle 
then proceeded : “ What I shall do, I shall 
do for justice. And public justice, with her 
scales’* — 

“ Bless my soul ! I’d quite fofgot the girl, 
Mr. Snipeton, your maid-of-all-work from 
Kent is below. A droll business. Quite an 
escape, poor thing ! But she’ll tell your 
wife all about it,” said Capstick. 

“ Your pUrdon. Just one minute where- 
upon Snipeton repaired to St. Giles. “ You 
know my house ? Mind, I don’t want all the 
world to know it. Well, make the best of 
your way there, and — stop. Come down 
stairs.” And Snipeton left the room, St. 
Giles following him. St. Giles — so Snipe- 
ton determined — should at once escort the 
wench to Hampstead. Another minute, and 
to the joy and ill-concealed astonishment of 
the pair, the girl saw in St. Giles the wan- 
derer and vagrant to whom she had given the 
shelter of a barn — and he beheld in his new 
fellow-servant, Becky, the soft-hearted maiden 
of the Lamb and Star. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

“ What is it you look at so earnestly ?” 
asked Mrs. Wilton : and Clarissa, with a 
flushed cheek, placed the miniature in her 
bosom. Snipeton had just quitted the house 
— for we must take back the reader to that 
oint of time — and Clarissa sat, with her 
eart in her eyes, gazing at the youthful fea- 
tures of her father. As she looked, with 
fond curiosity comparing tliose features, in 
their early bloom and strength, tempered with 
gentle frankness ; as she gazed upon their 
manly, loving openness, and, with her mem- 
ory, evoked that melancholy, care-worn face, 
that, smiling on nought beside, would always 
smile on her, she felt— she shuddered— but 
still she felt anger, bitterness towards her 
mother. Her eye, reading that face, could | 
see where pain had given a sharper edge to i 
time ; could see where, in the living face, 
care had doubled the work of years. Surely, 
she thought, so fair a morning promised a 
fairer night. That glad and happy day 
should have closed with a golden sunset, 
touching with solemn happiness all it shone 
upon, as slowly from the earth it passed in 
glory. These were the daughter’s thoughts 


as she heard her mother’s voice. A momen 
tary resentment glowed in her cheek — dark - 
ened her eyes. 

“ Clarissa !” 

“ I is nothing — a — a present from Mr. 
Snipeton — from my husband,” said Clarissa 
coldly. Her mother took her hand between 
her own. Affectionately pressing it, and 
with all a mother’s tenderness beaming in 
her face — the only look hypocrisy could never 
yet assume — she said, “/It is well, Clarissa — 
very well. It makes me happy, deeply hap- 
py, to hear you. I think it is the first time 
you have said ‘ husband.’ ” 

“ Is it so ? I cannot tell. The word es- 
caped me. Yet I — I — must learn to speak it.” 

“ Oh, yes, Clarissa. Make it the music of 
your life ! Think it a charm that, when pro- 
nounced, makes all earth’s evils less — doubling 
its blessings. A word that brings with it a 
sense of joy ; a strength ; a faith in human 
existence. A word that may clothe beggary 
itself with content and make a hut a temple. 
You may still pronounce it. Oh, never, never 
may you know what agony it is to forego 
that word. The living makes it a blessing ; 
and the dead sanctifies and hallows it.” 

Clarissa felt conscience-smitten, stung 
with remorse. i\ll heedlessly, cruelly., she 
had arraigned her mother ; thoughtless of the 
daily misery that wore her ; regardless of the 
penitence that corroded and consumed her. 
“ Forgive me,” she said : “ forgive me, 
mother. I will lay this lesson to my heart. 
I will learn to speak the word. You shall 
still teach me its sustaining sweetness.” 

“ A most unfit teacher ; most unfit,” said 
the mother, with an appealing look of anguish. 
“ Your own heart will best instruct you.” 
And then, with resolute calmness, she asked : 
“ What is this present ?” 

“You shall not know to-day; by-and-by, 
mother. And I have a present, too, for you,” 
said Clarissa ; and she looked so light, so 
happy, that her mother for the first time dared 
to hope. Did the young victim feel at length 
the wife ? Would that seeming life-long 
sorrow pass away, and the sunshine of the 
heart break in that clouded face ? 

“ I will be patient, child ; nay, I will 
promise what you will, I feel so grateful that 
I see you fhus cheerful — happy. Shall I not 
say happy, Clarissa ?” 

“ Oh yes ; very happy,” answered the wife ; 
and a sudden pang of heart punished the 
i treason of the lips. “ But I must not be idle 
to-day, I have so much to do.” And Clarissa 
seated herself at her work ; and the mother 
silently occupied herself. And so, hour after 
hour passed, and scarce a word was spoken. 
At length Dorothy Vale, with noiseless step 
and folded arms, stood in the room. 

“ They be come,” said Dorothy, with un- 
moved fiice, rubbing her arms. 


170 


THE HISTORY OF 


“ Who are come ?” asked Clarissa. 

“ Why, Becky be come, and a man with 
Ker,” answered Dorothy ; and — it was strange 
— but her voice seemed to creek with sup- 
pressed anger. 

“ I am glad of that,” said Clarissa ; “ tell 
the girl to come to me — directly, Dorothy.” 

Dorothy stood, rubbing her withered arms 
with renewed purpose. Her brow wrinkled, 
and her grey, cold eyes gleamed, like sharp 
points, in her head; then she laughed. 
“ She was brought up in the workhouse ; and 
to be put over my head ! Well, it’s a world ! 
The workhouse ; and put over my head !” 
Thus muttering, she left the room. In a 
moment, Becky — possessed with delight, 
swimming in a sea of happiness — was curt- 
seying before her new mistress. Now, were 
we noi assured, past all error, that it was the 
' same country wench that half laughed at, 
half listened to, the flatteries of the deceitful 
Gum, we should deny her identity with that 
radiant piece of flesh and blood, that, glowing 
with felicity, bobbed and continually bobbed 
before Mrs. Snipeton. Certainly, there is a 
subtle power of refinement in happiness ; a 
..something elevating, purifying in that expan- 
sion of the heart. ISudden bliss invests with 
, sudden grace ; and gives to homeliness itself a 
look of sweetness. The soul, for a brief 
time, flashes forth with brighter light ; as- 
serting itself — as human pride is sometimes 
apt to think — in the vulgarest, oddest sort of 
people. And so it was with Becky. To be 
sure, all the way from St. Mary Axe — hang- 
ing, and sometimes at puddles and crossings, 
with all her weight on the arm of St. Giles, 
she had felt the refining process hinted at 
above. St. Giles had talked on what he 
thought indifferent matters ; but the weather, 
the shops, the passers-by — whatever his sil- 
ver tongue dwelt upon — became objects of the 
dearest interest to the hungry listener ; who 
now laughed, she knew not why, from her 
over-brimming heart ; and now had much ado 
to check her tears, that — she knew it — had 
risen to her eyes, and threatened to flow. 
She walked in a region of dreams ; and in- 
toxicating music broke at every footstep. 
Could it be true — could it be real — that that 
wayfaring, wretched man ; that unhappy 
creature, with all the world hooting at him, 
chasing him to destruction, like a rabid cur, 
that vagabond, to a suspicious world, dyed in 
murderous blood, was the trim, handsome — 
to her, how beautiful ' — young fellow walk- 
fng at her side ; and now and then smiling so 
kindly upon her that her heart seemed to 
grow too big with the blessing ? And oh — 
extravagant excess of happiness ! — he was to 
be her fellow servant ! He would dwell under 
the same roof with her! Now she was 
steeped in bliss ; and now, a shadow fell upon 


her. Yes: it could not be. The happiness 
was too full ; all too complete too endure. 

And yet the bliss continued — nay, increased. 
Mrs. Snipeton, that creature of goodness ; 
that angel of Becky’s morning dreams — 
■ gave smiling welcome to her new handmaid ; 
greeted her with kindest words ; and, more 
than all, looked cordially on St. Giles, who 
could not remain outside, but sidled into the 
room to pay his duty to his handsome mis- 
tress. The sweetness with which she spoke 
to both seemed to the heart of Becky to unite 
both. The girl’s affection for St. Giles — 
until that moment, unknown to her in its 
strength — appeared sanctioned by the equal 
smiles of her lady. 

At this juncture, a new visitor — with a 
confidence which he was wont to wear, as 
though it mightily became' him — entered the 
room, passing before the slow domestic, 
leisurely bent upon heralding his coming. 
Mr. Crossbone was again in presence of his 
patient ; again had his finger on her pulse ; 
again looked with professional anxiety in 
Mrs. Snipeton's face ; as though his only 
thought, his only mission in this world was to 
continually act the part of her healing angel. 

Better, much better, my dear Mrs. Snipe- 
ton. Yes ; we shall be all right, now ; very 
soon all right. And I have brought you the best 
medicine in the world. Bless me I” — and 
Crossbone stared at Becky — “ the little wench 
from the Dog and Moon.” 

“ Lamb and Star, sir,” said Becky. — 
“ Wonder you’ve forgot the house, sir ; won- 
der you’ve forgot Mrs. Blick and all the 
babies.” 

“ I think it was the Lamb and Star,” said 
Crossbone ; but when we consider that the 
apothecary had already promised himself a 
carriage in London, can we wonder that he 
should have forgotten the precise sign ; that 
he should have forgotten the poor children 
(v/eeds that they were) who owed to him an 
introduction into this over-peopled world ? 
“You are a fortunate young woman, that 
you have been promoted from such a place to 
your present service. One always has one’s 
doubts of the lower orders ; nevertheless, I 
hope you’ll be grateful.” And the apothe- 
cary looked the patron. 

“I hope she ool,” said Dorothy, with a 
sneer ; and as she turned from the room, she 
went muttering along~“ She was born in 
the workhouse, and to be put over my head.” 

“ I have great faith in Becky*; she’ll be a 
good, and prudent girl ; I am sure of it. 
You may go now, child, to Dorothy. Bear 
with her temper a little, and soon she’ll be 
your friend. And with this encouragement, 
Becky left her mistress, seeking the kitchen, 
hopeful and happy, as pilgrims seek a shrine. 
In a moment she had resolved with herself to 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


171 


be a wonder of fidelity and patience. And 
then for Dorothy, though the girl could not 
promise herself to love her very much, never- 
theless, she determined to be to her a pattern 
of obedience. “ She may walk over me if 
she likes, and I won’t say nothing,” was 
Becky’s resolution ; should Dorothy, from the 
capriciousness of ill-temper, resolve upon 
such enjoyment ; walking over people, giving j 
at times, it must be owned, a. strange satis- ' 
faction to the tyranny of the human heart. 
Now Becky, though she had at least nine thou- 
sand out of the nine thousand and three good 
qualities that, according to the calculation of 

anonymous philospher,fall,a natural dower, 
to the lot of woman, was not ordinarily so 
much distinguished by meekness as by any 
other of the nameless crowd of good gifts. 
Ordinarily, any attempt “ to walk over her,” 
would have been a matter of extreme difficul- 
ty to the stoutest pedestrian ; but, Becky was 
molified, subdued. Her heart was newly 
opened and gushed with tenderness. She felt 
herself soothed to any powers of endurance. 
The house was made such a ha{)py, solemn 
place to her by the presence of St. Giles. 
He would live there : he would be her daily 
sight ; her daily music ; and with that thought, 
all the world might walk over her, and she 
would not complain of the value of a single 
word. She was astonished at her own de- 
termined meekness; she could never have 
believed it. 

“ And Mr. Snipeton — excellent man ! — has 
hired you ?” And Crossbone looked up and 
down at St. Giles. “ I trust, young man,, 
you’ll do no discredit to my good word. It’s 
a risk, a great risk, at any time to answer j 
for folks of your condition ; but I have ventu- 
red for the sake of — of your poor father.” 
St. Giles winced. “ I hope you’ll show 
yourself worthy of that honest man. Though 
he was one of the weeds of the world, never- | 
theless, I don’t know how it was, but I’d | 
have trusted him with untold gold. So, j 
you’ll be sober and attentive in this house ; 
study the interests of your master, the wishes 
of your excellent mistress who stands before 
ou; and, yes, you’ll also continue to be 
ind to your mother. And now, you’d 
better go and look to the horse that I’ve left 
at the garden gate.” St. Giles, glad of the 
dismissal, hurried from the room. He had 
colored and looked confused, and shifted so 
uneasily where he stood, that he feared his 
mistress might note his awkwardness; and 
thus suspect him for the lies of the apotheca- 
ry — for whom St. Giles, in the liberality of 
his shamefacedness, blushed exceedingly. 
Great, however, was the serenity of Cross- 
bone on all such occasions. Indeed, he took 
the same pleasure in falsehood as an epicure 
receives from a well seasoned dish. He 
looked upon lies as the pepper, the spices of 


daily life ; they gave a- relish to what would 
otherwise be flat and insipid. Hence, he 
would now and then smack his lips at a boun- 
cing flam, as though throughout his -whole 
moral and physical anatomy, he hugely en- 
joyed it : flourished, and grew fat upon it. 

“ And now, my dear Mrs. Snipeton — Mrs. 
Wilton, with your leave. I’ll talk a little with 
my patient,” and Crossbone, with an imperi- 
ous smile, w'aved his hand towards the door. 
Mrs. Wilton stirred not from her sewing ; said 
not a word ; but looked full in the face of 
her daughter. 

“ Oh no ; certainly not,” said Clarissa ; Mrs. 
Wilton has had too much trouble with her in- 
valid to refuse to listen to any further com- 
plaints ; though, indeed, sir,” said Clarissa 
significantly, “ I fear ’tis your anxiety alone 
that makes them so very — very dangerous. ” 

“ Ha ! my dear madam. You are not 
aware of it — patients arn’t aware of it — per- 
haps it is wisely ordered so — but the eye of 
the true doctor can see, madam — can see.” 

“ Pr[#5^ go on, sir, ” said Clarissa ; and^ 
Crossbone, a little puzzled, needed such en- 
couragement. 

“ Why, at this moment, madam,” — said 
the apothecary, suddenly breaking new 
ground — “ at this moment, were you turned 
to glass, to transparent glass, I could not 
more plainly observe the symptoms that, as 
you say, I exaggerate. And in fact, to the 
true physician, the human anatomy is glass — 
nothing but glass ; though, of course, we 
must not to the timid and delicate reveal every 
disease as we behold it. However, I have 
brought with me the most certain remedy. 
Safe and speedy, I assure you.” 

And with such erudite discourse did Cross- 
bone strive to entertain his patient ; who en- 
dured, with fullest female resignation, the 
learning of the doctor. 

St. Giles, leaving the house, hurried through 
the garden to take charge of the horse. Ar- 
rived at the gate, he saw the animal led by a 
man down the road, at a greater distance 
from the house than was necessary for mere 
exercise. Immediately he ran off, calling to 
the fellow who led the animal ; but the man, 
although he slackened his pa*ce, never turned 
his head or answered a syllable. “ Hallo, m}’’ 
man !” cried St. Giles, “ where are you lead- 
ing that ?”— and then he paused ; for Tom 
Blast slowly turned himself about, and letting 
the bridle fall in his arms, stared at the 
speaker. 

“ Why, what ’s the matter, mate ? I’m 
only taking care o’ the gentleman’s horse — 
jest walking him that he mayn’t catch cold. 
You don’t think I’d steal him, do you ?” asked 
Blast, winking. 

“ What — what brings you here again^ 
Blast I?” stammered St. Giles, scarce knowing 
what be said. 


172 


THE HISTORY OF 


“ What brings me here ? Why, bread 
•brings me here. Bread o’ any sort, or any 
colour ; dry bread at the best ; for I can’t get 
it buttered like some folks. Well, it’s like 
the world. No respect for old age, when it 
walks arm in arm with want ; no honor or 
nothin’ o’ that sort paid to grey hairs, — when 
ther’s no silver in the pocket. Well, I must 
say it — I can’t help it, tho’ it goes to [ny ’art 
to say it — but the sooner I’m out o’ this world 
the better, for I’m sick of men. Men ! — 
They’re wipers with legs,” and the inimita- 
able hypocrite spoke with so much passion, 
so much seeming sincerity, that St. Giles 
was for a moment confounded by a vague 
sense of ingratitude : for a moment he ceased 
to remember that the old crime-grained man 
before him had been the huckster of his in- 
nocence, his liberty — had made him the 
banned creature that he was, breathing a 
life of doubt and terror. 

“ What do you want ? What will satisfy 
you ?” asked St. Giles despairingly. 

“ Ha ! now you talk with some comfort in 
your voice. What vvill satisfy me ? There 
is some sense in that. Now you remind me 
of a little boy that was the apples of my 
eyes, and would have been the very likes o’ 
you, but — well, I won’t talk of that, for it al- 
ways makes my throat burn, and makes the 
world spin round me like a top. I don’t want 
much. No ; I’ve outlived all the rubbish and 
gingerbread of life, and care for nothing but 
the simple solids. It’s a wonder, young man, 
what time does with us. How, as I may say, 
it puts spectacles to our eyes, and makes us 
look into mill-stones. What will satisfy me ? 
Well, I do think I could go to the grave de- 
cent on a guinea a week.” 

“ Very likely I should think so,” said St. 
Giles. 

“ A guinea a-week, paid regular on Satur- 
days. For regularity doubles the sum. I 
might ha’ saved as much for my old age, for 
the money that’s been through my hands in 
my time. Only the drawback upon thieving 
is this, there’s nothing certain in it. No man, 
let him be as steady as old limes, no man as 
is a thief” — 

“ Hush ! somebody may hear you,” cried 
St. Giles, looking terrified about him. 

“ I’m speakin’ of a man’s misfortun’, not 
his fault,” cried the immovable Blast ; “ no 
man as is a thief can lay up for a decent old 
age. Have what luck we will, that’s where 
the honest fellars get the better on us. And 
so you see, instead o’ having nothin’ to do 
but smoke my pipe and go to the public-house, 
I’m obligated in my old age to crawl about 
and hold horses, and dotinything ; and any- 
thing is always the worst paid work a man 
can take money for. Now, with a guinea a 
week, wouldn’t I be a happy, quiet, nice old 


gentleman ! Don’t you think it’s in me, eh, 
young man ?” 

“ I wish you had it,” said St. Giles. “ I 
wish so with all my heart. But give me the 
bridle.” 

“ By no means,” said Blast. “ How do I 
know you was sent for the horse ? How do 
I know you mightn’t want to steal it ?” 

Steal it !” cried St. Giles, and the thought 
of the past made him quiver with indignation. 

“ Why, horses are stole,” observed Mr. 
Blast, with the serenity of a philosophical de- 
monstrator. “ Look^jere, now : if I was to 
give up thisdiorse, what hinders you — I don’t 
say you would do it — but what hinders you 
from taking a quiet gallop to Smithfield, and 
Vv^hen you get there, selling him to some old 
gentleman and” 

“ Silence ! Devil ! beast !” exclaimed St. 
Giles, raising his fist at the tormentor. 

“ No, no ; you don’t mean it” — said Blast, 
— you wouldn’t hit a old man like me, I know 
you wouldn’t. ’Cause if you was only to 
knock me down, I know I should call out, I 
couldn’t help myself. And then somebody 
might come up ; p’raps a constable ; and 
then — oh ! I’m as close as a cockle with a 
secret, I am, when I’m not put upon, but 
when my blood’s up, — bless your soul, I 
know my weakness, I’d hang my own bro- 
ther. I should be very sorry, in course, ar- 
terwards ; but he’d swing — as I’m a living 
sinner, he’d swing,” and Blast, as he stared 
at St. Giles, gently smacked his lips, and 
gently rubbed his palms together. 

“ I ask your pardon ; I didn’t knoAy what 1 
said. Here’s a shilling ; now give me the 
bridle,” said St. Giles. 

“ I s’pose it ’s all right,” said Blast, rend- 
ering up his charge, and significantly eyeing 
the coin. “I s’pose it ’sail right; but only 
to think of this world ! Only to think that 
you should give me asiiilling for holding your 
horse! Well, if a man could only know it, 
wouldn’t it break his heart outright to look 
at the bits o’ boys that afore he died, would 
be put clean over his head ? It’s a good shil- 
lin’, isn’t it?” 

“ To be sure it is; and an honest one too,” 
said St. Giles. 

“ Glad to hear that ; tho’ I don’t know it 
will go a penny the further. I wish the colour 
had been yellow, eh ?” 

I wish so, too, for your sake. Good day,” 
and St. Giles sought to shake his evil genius 
off. 

“ I’m in no ’urry. Time’s no good to me : 
you may have the pick of any of thefour-and- 
twenty hours at your own price,” said Blast, 
following close at his side. “ And so, they’ve 
turned you over from St. James’s-square to 
the old money-grubber ? Well, he’s very 
rich ; though I don’t think the sops in the 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


173 


pan wiK be as many as you’d been greased 
with at his lordship’s. For all that, he’s very 
rich, and you wouldn’t think what *a lot of 
plate the old man’s got.” s. 

“ How do you know that ?” asked St. Giles. 

“ I dream’d it only last night. I had a 
vvisijOn, and I thought that the mother of little 
Jingo” — 

“ Don’t talk of it, man — don’t talk of it,” 
exclaimed St. Giles, “ I won’t hear it.” 

“ I must talk on it,” said Blast, sidling the 
closer, and striding as St. Giles strode. “ I 
must talk on it. It comforts me. I dream’d 
that the poor soul come to me, and told me 
to follow her, and took me into old Snipeton’s 
cottage there, and showed me the silver tank- 
ards, and silver dishes, and even counted up 
the silver tea-spoons, that there was no end 
to ; and then, when she’d put all the plate 
afore me,, she vanished off, and I was left 
alone with it. In course you know what fol- 
lowed. 

“ I can guess,” groaned St. Giles. 

“ How rich I was while I was snoring, last 
night ; and when I woke I was as poor as 
goodness. But somehow, my dream’s fell 
true — I can’t help thinking it — since I’ve fell 
in with you.” 

“ How so, man ? What have I to do with 
Mr. Snipeton’s plate, but to see nobody steals 
it?” said St. Giles, firmly. 

“ To be sure; and yet when there’s so much 
silver about it, hnd a guinea a week — well. 
I’ll say a pound, then — a pound a week would 
make a fellow-cretur happy, and silent for life 
— I said, silent for life” — 

St. Giles suddenly paused, and turned full 
upon Blast. “ Go your ways, man — go your 
ways. Silent or not silent, you do not fright- 
en me. What I may do for you. I’ll do of my 
own free will, and with my own money, such 
as it is. And, after all, I think ’t will serve 
you better to hold your tongue, than” — 

“ I wouldn’t kill the goosedbr all the eggs 
at once,” said Blast, grinning at the figure. 

St. Giles felt deadly sick. He had thought 
to brave — defy the ruffian ; but the power of 
the villain, the fate that with a word he could 
call down upon his victim, unnerved him. 
St. Giles, with entreating looks, motioned 
him away; and Blast leering at him, and then 
tossing up the shilling with his finger and 
thumb, passed on, leaving St. Giles at the 
garden gate, where stood Clarissa ! brought 
there by the earnest entreaties of Crossbone, 
to view the, horse — ^the wondrous steed that 
was to endow its mistress with new health 
and beauty. 

“ You may see at a glance, madam, there’s 
Arab blood in the thing ; and yet as gentle as 
a rabbit. Young man, just put her through 
her paces. Bless you ! she’d trot over eggs, 
and never crack ’em. A lovely mare !” cried 
Crossbone, “all her brothers and sisters, I ’m 
fiure of it, in the royal stables.” 


“ I ’m afraid, too beautiful — much too spir« 
ited for me, sir,” said Claris.sa, as St. Giles 
ambled the creature to and fro. Ere, how- 
ever, Crossbone could make reply — assuring 
the lady, as he proposed to do, that she would 
sit the animal as securely and withal as grace- 
fully as she would sit a throne — Mr. Snipeton,. 
full of the dust and cobwebs of St. Mary Axe, 
trotted to the gate. His first feeling was dis- 
pleasure, when he saw his wife exposed be- 
neath the open sky to the bold looks of any 
probable passenger ; and then she turned such 
a kind and cordial face upon him, that for the 
happy moment, he could have wished all the 
dwellers of the earth spectators of her beauty, 
beaming as it did upon her glorified husband. 
It was plain : love so long dormant, timid 
within her bosom, now flew boldly to h6r eyes, 
and curved her lips, with fondest looks and 
sweetest smiles for her wedded lord. We 
have before declared that Snipeton had an in- 
timate acquaintance with his own ugliness : 
unlike so many who carry the disadvan- 
tage with them through life, yet are never 
brought to a personal knowledge of it, Snipe- 
ton knew his plainness : it was not in the pow- 
er of mirrors to surprise and annoy him. And 
yet, in his old age, he would feel that his ug- 
liness was, by some magic lessened, nay, re- 
fined into comeliness, when his wife smiled 
upon him. His face, for the time, seemed ta 
wear her light. And thus did this new belief 
in her affection give the old man a certain 
faith in his amended plainness ; as though 
beauty beautified what it loved. 

“ There, Mr. Snipeton — there’s a treasure. 
A loA^ely thing, eh !” cried the triumphant 
Crossbone. 

“ Very handsome, very ; but is she well 
broken — is she quite safe ?” said Snipeton, 
looking tenderly at his wife. 

“ A baby might rein her. No more tricks 
than a judge ; no more vice than a lady of 
quality.” 

“ Humph !” said Snipeton, dismounting, ana 
giving his horse to St. Giles. “ My dear, you 
will catch cold.” And then the ancient gentle- 
man placed his arm around his wife’s waist,and 
led her from the gate ; Crossbone following, and 
staring at the endearment with most credulous 
looks. It was so strange, so odd ; it seemed 
as if Snipeton had taken a most unwarranta- 
ble liberty with the lady of the house. And 
then the apothecary comforted himself with 
the belief that Mrs. Snipeton only suffered 
the tenderness for the sake of appearances : 
no ; it was some satisfaction to know she 
could not love the man. “ And your new maid 
is come ? She seems simple and honest,” said 
Snipeton. 

“ Oh yes ; a plain, good-tempered soul, that 
will exactly serve us,” answered Clarissa. 

“ Very good — very good.” And Snipeton 

turned into the house. He had thought again to 


174 


THE HISTORY OF 


to urge his dislike to Mrs. Wilton ; to sug- 
gest her dismissal ; but he v^ould take ano- 
ther opportunity — forgo she should : he was 
determined, but would await his time. As 
these thoughts busied him, Mrs. Wilton en- 
tered the room, followed by Crossbone. 
Somewhat sullenly, Snipeton gazed at the 
house-keepers and then his eyes became fiery, 
and pointing to the ribband that Clarissa had 
hung about her mother’s neck — the ribband 
bearing the miniature, yet unseen by the 
wearer, he passionately asked — “ Where got 
you that 1 Woman ! Thief ! Where stole 
you that ?” 

“ Stole ?” exclaimed Mrs. Wilton, and she 
turned deathly pale ; and on the instant tore 
the ribband from her neck ; and then, for the 
first time, saw the miniature. For a moment, 
her face was lurid with agony, that seemed to 
tongue-tie her, and then she shrieked — “ Oh 
God ! and is it he ?” 

“ Detected ! detected !” cried Snipeton — 
“ a detected thief.” 

“ No, sir ; no,” exclaimed Clarissa, embra- 
cing her parent. “ You shall now know all. 
She is ”— 

Clarissa was about to acknowledge her 
mother, when the wretched woman clasped 
her daughter’s head to her bosom, stifling the 
words. “ No thief, sir,” she said, “ but no 
longer your house-keeper.” And then, kiss- 
ing Clarissa, and murmuring — “ not a word 
— not one word,” she hurried from the room. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Snipeton liked to be duped. He hugged 
himself in the knowledge of his weakness, 
mightily enjoying it. And so, he suffered h is 
wife to nestle close to his. chair — to place her 
'hand upon his shoulder — to look with earnest, 
'pleading eyes upon him — to talk such fluent 
sweetness, melting his heart ! And whilst 
•Clarissa assured him that, in a playful mo- 
ment, she had placed the miniature about the 
housekeeper’s neck, that it was a wickedness, 
a calumny, to think otherwise, — that, in very 
truth, it would cause her — his wife, the wife 
he so professed to love — such pain and re- 
morse to think suspiciously of Mrs. Wilton, — 
Snipeton, that learned man as h6 deemed himj 
self in the worst learning of the world — that 
sage, who picked his way through the earth 
as though its fairest places were all the close- 
lier set with gins and snares, — he would not 
see the sweet deceit in his wife’s face ; he 
would not hear the charitable falsehood flow- 
ing from her lips ; no, he would be filled with 
■belief. He would commit a violence upon 


his prudence and blindfold her. She might 
rebel aud struggle somewhat; nevertheless, 
she should wear the bandage. 

This wise determination still grew in his 
heart ; in truth, the soil was favorable to the 
deceit ; and therefore next morning, enjoying 
the ampnities of break fast, Mr. Snipeton assu- 
red his wife that — whatever his thoughts had 
been — he now felt the deepest, sweetest con- 
fidence in Mrs. Wilton. She had shown her- 
self a most considerate gentlewoman, and he 
should ever respect her for it. “ Poor thing ! 
I never knew anything of her private history 
— for private histories, my dear ” — this ten- 
derness had become almost familiar to the 
husband — “ private histories are very often 
like private wasps’ nests ; things of danger, 
with no profit in ’em ; nevertheless, she al- 
ways appeared to me too good — yes, too good 
for her situation. That’s always a pity 
and Snipeton continued to breakfast very 
heartily. 

“ True, husband, true,” said Clarissa 
“ such inequalities of fortune are very sad.” 

“ Very inconvenient,” cried Snipeton ; “ for 
you see, my dear, people who are too good for 
their employment are generally too bad for 
their employers. There is no such lumber in 
the world as broken down gentility. Always 
out of place — never fit for anything. A de- 
cayed gentleman as he’s called is a nuisance ; 
that is, I mean, to a man of the world — to a 
man of business. For you see, there’s always 
impertinence in him. He always seems to 
be thinking of what he has been — you can’t 
get him to think of what he is. He becomes 
your clerk, we’ll say. Well, you tell him to 
call a hackney-coach, and he sets about it in 
a manner that impudently says to you — ‘ Once 
1 kept my own carriage ! ’ You order him 
to copy a letter or what not ; and he draws 
down the corners of his mouth to let you 
know that — ‘ Once in his day, he used to write 
cheques !’ Now this is unpleasant. In the 
first place one doesn’t like any insolence from 
anybody ; and in the next, if one happens to 
be in a melancholy, thinking mood, one doesn’t 
like to be reminded by the bit of decay about 
one, what, for all one knows — for it’s a 
strange world — one may drop /down to one’s 
self. A decayed gentleman to a rich man is 
— well — he’s like a dead thief on a gibbet to 
the live highwayman. Ha ! ha ! What’s 
the matter?” — asked the mirthful man, for 
he saw Clarissa shudder at the illustration, 
though so very truthful and excellent to the 
maker. “ To be sure, I’d forgot ; you’ve a 
a tender heart— I love you all the better for it 
— and don’t like to hear about such matters. 
And then again I’d forgot— to be sure, what 
a fool I am !” — And then Mr. Snipeton re- 
membered that, in his vi»*tuous denunciation 
of bankrupt Plutus, he had forgotten— led a- 
way by the dazzling light of simile— the con- 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


175 


dition of Clarissa’s ftither: had, in the heat of 
speech, failed to remember that he had bought 
the bridal victim of the necessities of her 
parent. But, Mr. Snipeton as he thought, 
made immediate amends, — for taking his 
wife’s hand, he pressed it very tenderly ; kiss- 
ed her, and tlien repeated — What a fool I 
am !” 

(Now this confession — a confession that 
the very wisest of us might, without any hes- 
itation, make to himself three times a day ; 
and we much question whether the discipline 
so exercised would not carry with it more 
profitable castigation than aught laid on with 
knotted rope — this confession was not to be 
expected of so sage and close a man as Ebe - 
nezer Snipeton. Some sudden satisfaction 
must have betrayed him into the avowal: 
some unexpected pleasure, tripping up habi- 
tual gravity, and showing it’s unthought of 
weakness. Much, indeed, did the wife of his 
bosom, as he would call her — and why not ? 
fordo not rocks bear flowers ? — much did she 
marvel at the humility of her husband that 
even for a moment, placed him on the flat 
level with other men. But great happiness, 
like great sorrow, will sometimes knock the 
stilts from under us ; admirable stilts, upon 
which so many of us walk abroad, ay, and at 
home too ; though the world, provoking in its 
blindness, will often not perceive how very 
tall we are.) 

“ But the 'truth is, dear Clarissa” — con- 
tinued Snipeton — I had a sort of respect for 
Mrs. Wilton, and though 1 often spoke of it, 

I really had not the heart to turn her from the 
house. I often threatened it ; but it’s a com- 
fort to know it — I couldn’t have done it. Now 
she’s gone, I feel it.” 

“ Gone !” exclaimed Clarissa ! 

“ Discharged herself, my dear,” said Snipe- 
ton, as upon his defence. “ I found this upon 
the breakfast table.’’ Hereupon Snipeton, 
unfolding a note, placed it in his wife’s hand. 
Silently, with trickling tears, she gazed upon 
the paper. I shall have no objection to give 
her a character ; none at all : for I feel very 
easy about the plate. I’ve no doubt, though 
I’ve made no inquiry as yet, that all’s safe to 
a salt-spoon. Not that she tells us where 
she’s gone ; nevertheless, I feel my heart at 
ease about the property. Come, come, now 
— don’t be weak — don’t be silly. You should 
not attach yourself in this way to a servant. 
It’s weakness — worse than weakness.” Thus 
spoke Snipeton to his wife, who had sunk 
back in her chair, and covering her face with 
her hands, was sobbing piteously. 

At this moment Dorothy Vale moved into 
the room. “ Will mistress ride to-day, the 
man wants to know.’’ 

Yes, she will. Yes, my dear, you will” 
— repeated Snipeton, moving to Clarissa, and i 
very tenderly placing his arms around her ; j 


and shuddering, she endured him. ‘^You 
hear ; let the horses be ready in half-an-hour 
Go.” And Dorothy went ; but not a thought 
the faster for the thundering monosyllable 
discharged at her. “ You’ll see me on my 
way to town ? Some way ; not far ; no, a 
mile or so. ’Tis such a morning : there’s so 
much heaven come down upon the earth. 
Such weather ! You’ll take health with 
every breath. Eh, Clarissa?” And again 
the old man threatened an embrace, when the 
victim rose. 

“ Be it as you will, sir,” — said Clarissa — 
“ in half-an-hour, I shall be ready.” And 
she left the room. 

Now was Snipeton delighted with her obe- 
dience ; and now, he paused in his triumphant 
strides about tlie room, to listen. Had she 
really gone to her chamber ? Ashamed of 
the doubt, he walked the faster — walked and 
whistled. And then he was so happy, the 
room was too small for his felicity : he would 
forth, and expand himself in the garden. He 
so loved a garden ; and then he could walk a- 
mid tlie shrubs and flowers, with his eye upon 
the window tnat enshrined the saint his soul 
so reverently bowed to. How frankly she 
yielded to his wish ! Every day — he was 
quite sure of it — he was becoming a happier 
and happier husband. He looked forward to 
years and years of growing joy. To be sure, 
he was growing old : but still looking onward, 
the nearer the grave, the less we see of it. 

“ If you please, sir,” — said St. Giles to his 
new master, as he entered the garden, — “ do 
you put up both the horses in the city ?” 

“ No : your mistress will come back,” said 
Snipeton. 

“ Alone, sir ?” asked St. Giles ; and the 
husband, as though the words had stung him, 
started. 

“ Alone ! Why, no : dolt. Alone !” There 
was something hideous in the question : some- 
thing that called up a throng of terrors. Cla- 
rissa alone, with the world’s wicked eyes 
staring, smiling, winking at her 1 

Humph ! I had forgotten. As yet, we 
have but two horses. Fool that I am !” A 
second confession, and yet early day ! And 
Snipeton, musing, walked up and down the 
path and plucking a flower, rolled it betwixt 
his finger and tliumb to assist Ijis meditation. 
She had consented — so kindly, blithely con- 
sented to his wish, that it would be cruel to 
her— cruel to himself — to disappoint her. 
“ New, my man, be quick. Run to the Flask, 
and,), my name get a horse for yourself. In 
a d or two, we must see and mount you — 
n> io- see and light upon a decent penn’orth. 
Q'gjck. We musn’t keep your mistress wait- 
iiLg And harkye ! take my last orders now. 
W you return, you will ride, close — very 
cIo!ge Io your lady : so close that you may 
gra%. the bridle ; the horse may be skittish ; 


176 


THE tllSTORY OF 


and we cannot be too cantioiis. Obey me ; 
and yon know not how yon may serve your- 
self. Go.” St. Giles ran upon his errand, 
and Snipeton — after a turn or two, after 
another look at the chamber-window, where 
it so strangely comforted him to see, 
through the curtain, his wife pass and repass 
— walked toward the stable. He began to 
hum a tune. Suddenly he stopt. He had 
never thought of it before ; but — it was whim, 
a foolish whim, he knew that — nevertheless 
he now remembered that his wife never sang. 
Not a single note. Perhaps she could not 
sing. Pshaw ! There was an idleness of 
the heart that always sang — somehow. And 
thus, for a minute, Snipeton pondered, and 
then laughed — a little hollowing, but still he 
laughed — at the childishness of his folly. 

Mr. Snipeton was by no means a proud 
mah. He was not one of those incarnate 
contradictions that, in the way of business, 
would wipe the shoes of a customer in the 
counting-house, yet ring up the servant to 
poke the fire at home. No: he was not 
proud. He refused not to put his hands to 
his own snuffers if the candh, or his ovvn 
convenience, needed them. And so, entering 
the stable, and seeing the mare yet unsad- 
dled, he thought he would make her ready. 
And then he patted and caressed the beast as 
the thing that was to bear the treasure of his 
life : even already he felt a sort of regard for 
the creature. He was about to saddle the 
animal, when he heard, as he thought, his 
wife in the garden. He hurried out, and 
found Clarissa — already habited — awaiting 
him. And still his heart grew bigger with 
new pride, when he saw his wife ; she looked 
so newly beautiful. What wondrous excel- 
lence she had ! Under every new aspect, 
she showed another loveliness ! If he could 
only be sure that so sweet — so gracious a 
creature loved him — him — so old and — and 
— so uncomely a man ! And then she wanly 
sm.iled ; and he felt sure of her heart : yes, it 
was beating with, a part and parcel of, his 
own — pulse with pulse — throb for throb — 
their blood commingled — and their spirits, 
like flame meeting flame — were one ! 

“ Why, Clarissa — love — you never looked 
so beautiful — never — indeed, never,” said 
Snipeton, and the old man felt sick with hap- 
piness. 

“ Beautiful, master, isn’t missus ?” said 
Becky, and with her opened hands she smooth- 
ed down the folds of the riding-dress, as 
though it was some living thing she loved ; 
and then she gazed at the beauty of her mis- 
tress, believing it would be wrong to think 
her quite an angel, as just and wrong nj rto 
think her very near one. > ; 

“ Your horse is not yet saddled, love,’ flfaid 
Snipeton, taking his wife’s hand, “iiOj \yet, 
dearest.” 


“ Bless you, master, now missus is drest, 
I’ll saddle her,” cried Becky, and she ran to 
the stable. Most adroit of handmaids ! 
Equal to tie a bobbin as to buckle a girth ! 
And ere St. Giles arrived from the Flask with 
his borrowed steed — it had a sorry, pack- 
horse look, but as the landlord assured the 
borrower, was “quite good enough for him ; 
who was he ?” — the mare was ready. 

“ Well, ’twill serve for to-day, but next 
time we must do better than that,” said Snipe- 
ton, glancing at St. Giles’s horse ; and then 
he turned to lift his ' wife into the saddle. 
Untouched by his hand, she was in a mo- 
ment in her seat : another moment, nay, lon- 
ger, Snipeton paused to look at her; he had 
never before seen her on horseback. At 
length the riders went their way, Becky, 
hanging over the gate, now looking at her 
mistress — and now, with red, red face and 
sparkling eyes, bobbing her head, and showing 
her teeth to St. Giles, doing his first service 
as groom to Snipeton — and doing it with 
a sad, uneasy heart ; for he felt that he was 
the intended tool for some mischief — the 
bound slave to some wrong. And with this 
thought in his brain, he looked dull and moody, 
and answered the eloquent farewells of Becky, 
with a brief, heavy nod. 

“ Well, I’m sure !” said Becky, as she 
thought, to her own snubbed soul. 

“ ghat’s the matter ?” asked Dorothy Vale, 
who stood rubbing her arms, a pace or two be- 
hind her. 

“ Nothin’. What should be ? I never lets 
anything be the matter. Only when peoplb 
look ‘good bye’ people might answer.” 

“ Ha ! child,” replied Mrs. Vale, with an 
extraordinary gush of eloquence, — men upon 
foot is one thing — men upon horseback is 
another.” How it was that Mrs. Vale con- 
descended to the utterance of this wisdom, 
we cannot safely say : for no thrifty house- 
wife ever kept her tea and sugar under closer 
lock than did she the truths unquestionably 
within her. Perhaps she thought it would 
twit the new maid — the interloper — brought 
to be put over her head. And perhaps she 
meant it as a kindly warning : for certainly, 
Dorothy felt herself charitably disposed. Mrs. 
Wilton had left the cottage ; and of course 
that girl — that chit— could never be made 
housekeeper. However, leaving the matron 
and the maid, let us follow the riders. 

Great was the delight of Snipeton, as he 
ambled on, his wife at his side ; her long 
curls dancinor in the air ; the nimble blood in 
her face ; and, as he thought, deeper, keener 
affection sparkling in her eyes. Never be- 
fore had he taken such delight in horseman- 
ship : never had felt the quick pulsation— the 
new power, as though the horse communica- 
ted its strength to the rider— the buoyancy, 
the youthfulness of that time. And still he 


I 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 177 


rode ; and still, at his side, his wife smiled, 
and glowed with fresher beanty, and her ring- 
lets — as they were blown now about her 
cheeks, and now upon her lips, how he envied 
them ! — still danced and fluttered, and when 
suddenly — as at some blithe word dropt from 
him — she laughed with such a honied chuc- 
kle, she seemed to him an incarnate spell, at 
whose every motion, look, and sound, an 
atmosphere of love and pleasure broke on all 
around her. Poor old man ! At that deli- 
cious moment, every wrinkle had vanished 
from his brow and heart. He felt as though 
he had caught time by the beard, and had 
made him render back every spoil of youth. 
His brain sang with happiness ; and his blood 
burned like lava. 

And so rode they on; and Snipeton little 
heeded — he was so young, so newly-made — 
the steed that, with asthmatic roar, toiled 
heavily behind. They crossed the heath, — 
turned into Highgate, and with more careful 
pace descended the hill. Every minute 
Snipeton felt more precious, it was so close 
to the last, when he must leave, for some long 
hours, his life of life ! 

(Now, is it not sad — we specially put the 
question to the Eve, whose eyes may chance 
to rest upon these ink-stained thoughts — is it 
not a matter, tears being upon hand, to weep 
over, to think of love in love’s paralysis, or 
dotage ? Love, with cherub face and pale 
gold locks, may chase his butterflies — may, 
monkey as he is, climb the Hesperian timber, 
pluck the fruit : he is in the gay audacity of 
youth, and the tender years of the offender 
sink felonies to petty larcenies. But love — 
elderly love — to go limping after painted fan- 
cies — to try to reach the golden apples with 
a crutch stick, — why, set the offender in the 
pillory, and shower upon him laughter.) 

We have written this paragraph whilst Mr. 
Snipeton — in the king’s highway, and more- 
over upon horseback — kissed his young wife, 
Clarissa. Although the man kissed the wo- 
man through a wedding-ring — a lawful circle, 
and not a Pyramus and Thisbe chink — we 
have no excuse for him, save thi,s, it had been 
dragged from him. She — potent highway- 
woman — had made him surrender his lips by 
the force of death-dealing weapons. He was 
about to separate from her. He took her by 
the hand — grasped it — she looked in his eyes, 
and — we say it — ^the old husband kissed his 
young wife ! 

“ Caw — caw — caw !” At the very moment 
— yea, timing the very smack — a. carrion 
crow flapped its wings above the heads of man 
and wife, and hovering, thrice cried “ caw — 
caw — caw,” and then flew to the northward, 
it might be to tell to gossip crows of human 
infirmity ; it might be, like coward scandal, 
to feed upon the dead, flowever, the mar- 
ried pair separated. He would return early 


— very early that day — ^to dinner. And she 
would gently amble homeward ; and — as she 
knew she was the treasure of his soul — she 
would be very careful not to take cold. She 
would promise him — ay, that she would. 

“ Remember — close — very close,” said 
Snipeton in a low voice to St. Giles ; and 
then again-and again he kissed his hands to 
his wife’s back. “ She might look once be- 
hind,” thought Snipeton gravely ; and then he 
smiled and played with his whip. It was'not 
impossible — nay, it was very likely — she was 
in tears ; -and would not show the sweet, deli- 
cious weakness to the servant. And still 
Snipeton paused and watched. How beauti- 
fully she rode ! Strait as a pillar ! And how 
the feather in her hat sank and rose and flut- 
tered, and how his heart obeyed the motion, 
as though the plume were waved by some 
enchantress. 

He wished he had taken her with him to 
St. Mary Axe. What ! Ride with her through 
the city ? And then he recoiled from the 
very thought of the thousand eyes opened and 
staring at her — as though by very looking 
they could steal the bloom they gazed at — 
recoiled as from so many daggers. Still he 
watched her. Something made him, on the 
sudden, unquiet. And then, as if at that mo- 
ment it had only struck upon his ear, he heard 
the clinging cry of the crow. Another mo- 
ment, and he loudly laughed. Was it anything 
strange, he asked himself, that crows should 
caw ? And then again he looked gloomier 
than before. 

He would go home, he thou gift. For once, 
he would make holiday, doing double work on 
the morrow. Yes ; he would not toil in the 
gold-mine to-day. And now she had turned 
the lane. It was too late. Besides, business 
was ever jealous — revengeful. Love her as 
you would for years, the beldam brooked no 
after neglect. She would have her dues — or 
her revenge. And with this thought, Snipe- 
ton stuck his spurs to his horse, and rode as 
though as he was riding to Paradise or a hun- 
dred per cent. 

“ I ask your pardon, ma’am,” said St. Giles 
to Clarissa, about to put her horse to its speed, 
“ but master told me to follow close, and — 
indeed I ask your pardon — but ’tisn’t possible, 
mounted as I am. I’ve had a hard bout to 
keep up as ’tis. No offence, ma’am,” said St 
Giles, very humbly. 

“ Oh no ; we shall soon be at home — ’tis 
not so far,” answered Clarissa ; and her al- 
tered look, her mournful voice surprised him. 
It was plain her cheerfulness had been assu- 
med ; for, on the sudden, she looked weari- 
ed, sick at heart. Poor gentlewoman ! per- 
haps it was parting with her husband No: 
that generous thought was banished, soon as 
it rose. Already St. Giles had a servant’s love 
for his young mistress ; she spoke so sweetly, 


178 


THE HISTORY OF 


gently, to all about her. And then — though 
he had but passed one evening with his fel- 
low-servant, Becky — he had learned from her 
so much goodness of the lady of tlie house. 
Again and again he looked at her ; it was 
plain, she had overtasked her spirits ; she 
looked so faint — so pale. 

“ Dear lady— beg your pardon — but you’re 
not well,” cried St. Giles. “ Shall I try and 
gallop after master ?” 

“ No — no ; it is nothing. A little fatigued 
— ^no more. 1 am unused to so much exer- 
cise, and nothing more. Let us hasten home,” 
— ^and controlling herself, she put her horse 
to an amble, St. Giles whipping and spurring 
hard his wretched beast, to follow, that never- 
theless lagged many yards behind. A horse- 
man overtook him. 

“ My good man,” said the stranger, “ can 
you tell me the way to Hampstead church ?” 

“ I don’t know — I’m in a hurry,” and in 
vain St. Giles whipped and spurred. 

“ Humph ! Your beast is not of your mind, 
any how. ’Twould be hard work to steal a 
horse, like that, wouldn’t it ?” asked the man. 

“ Steal it !” and St. Giles looked full in the 
speaker’s face, and saw it one indignant smile. 
Surely, he had met that man before. - 
“ Come, fellow, you know me ?” said the 
stranger. “ Once you would have done me a 
good turn. I see — now you recollect me. 
Yes ; we are old acquaintance, are we not ?” 

“ No, sir ; I know nothing,” said St. Giles, 
but he shook with the lie he uttered. Too 
well he knew the man, who, with looks of tri- 
umphant vengeance, scowled and smiled upon 
him. It was Robert Willis ; the murderer 
loosed from his bonds by the magic tongue of 
Mr. Montecute Crawley. “ I beg, sir, you’ll 
not stop me. For the love of goodness, don’t, 
sir” — and St.Giles trembled, as though palsied. 

“ For the love of goodness ! Ha ! ha ! 
For the fear of the gallows, you mean. Now, 
listen to me ; felon — returned transport. 
That lady must not go back to her home. 
Nay — ’tis all settled. She goes not back to old 
Snipeton — the old blood sucker ! — that’s flat.” 

“ What do you mean ?” cried St. Giles stun- 
ned, bewildered. 

“ My meaning’s plain — plain as a halter. 
When we last met, you’d have put the rope a- 
round my neck. Raise one cry — stir a foot 
faster than ’tis my will and — as sure as green 
leaves hang from the boughs above you — so 
surely — but I see you understand — yes, you 
are no fool, master St. Giles, though Hog-lane 
was your birth-place and school, and Mister 
Thomas Blast-^you see, 1 know your history 
— your only teacher.” 

“ Do what you will ! Hang, gibbet me, you 
sha’n’t lay a finger on that blessed lady” — and 
St. Giles, throwing himself from his useless 
horse, ran like a deer after his mistress, Wil- 
lis with threats and curses, following St. Giles, 


finding his pursher gained upon him, stopt, 
and as Willis came up, leapt at him, with the 
purpose of dragging him from the saddle, and 
mounting his horse. In a' moment, Willis, 
beneath his assailant, was rolling in the dust ; 
but as St. Giles was about to leap upon the 
horse, he was levelled to the eartti by a blow 
from Tom Blast who— he was a wonderful 
man for his age ! — sprang with the agility of 
youth from a hedge. 

“ What !” cried his early teacher to the 
prostrate St. Giles, — “ you'd do it agin, would 
you ? Well, there never was such a fellow 
for stealing horse-flesh ! You was born with 
it, I suppose,” — said the ruffian, with affec- 
ted commiseration, balancing the cudgel that 
had struck down the vanquished — “ you was 
born with it, and — poor fellar — it’s no use a 
blaming you.” 

In a moment Willis had remounted his horse, 
and shaking his clenched fist over St. Giles, 
galloped off'. 

“ How now !” — gasped St. Giles, his sense 
returning — “ how now,” he cried, opening his 
eyes, and staring stupidly in the face of Blast 
— “ what’s the matter ? What’s all this ?” 

“ Why, the matter is jist this,” said Blast. 

“ Your missus is much too good for your 
master. That’s the ’pinion of somebody as 
shall be nameless. And so you may go home, 
and tell ’em not to wait dinner for her. It’s 
wickedness to spile meat.” 

“ Tell me — where is she — where have they 
carried her— tell me, or”— and St. Giles seiz- 
ing Blast, was speechless with passion. 

“ I’ll jist tell you this much. Your lady’s 
in very good company. And I’ll tell you this, 
particularly for yourself ; if you go on tearing 
my Sunday coat in that manner, I know 
where the constable lives, and wont I call 
him !” With this dignified rebuke Mr. Blast 
released himself from the hands of his captor, 
who — with a look of stupid misery — suffered 
him to walk away. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

And now is Snipeton widowed. Yes : with 
a living wife, damned to first widowhood. It 
would have worn and tortured the spirit with- 
in him sometimes to wander from the desk to 
the churchyard, and there look down upon 
Clarissa's grave. To have read, and read 
with dreamy, vacant eyes, the few tombstone 
syllables that sum up— solemnly brief— the 
hopes, and fears, and wrongs and wretched- 
ness I the pleasant thoughts and aching wea- 
riness that breath begins and ends. “ Claris- 
sa, wife of Ebenezer Snipeton died—.” Words 
to dim a husband’s eves ; to carry heaviness 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


179 


to the heart ; to numb the soul and for a time 
to make the lone man, with his foot at tlie 
treasure-holding gra,ve, feel the whole world, 
drifted from him, and he left landed on the lit- 
tle spot he looks on. And then breaks small, 
mournful music from those words : pleasant, 
hopeful sounds, that will mingle her name 
with his ; that will make him own the dear, 
the still incorporate dead. The flesh of his 
flesh, the bone of his.bone, is lapsed into the 
disgrace of death : it is becoming the nourish- 
ment of grass ; and still his heart yearns to 
to the changing form : still it is a part of him ; 
and his tender thoughts may, with the coffin- 
ed dead, love to renew the bridal vow the dead 
absolves him of. And Sni|leton, his wife in 
her winding-sheet, might so have solemnised 
a second wedlock. For surely there are such 
nuptials. Yes ; second marriages of the 
grave between the quick and the dead, with 
God and his angels the sole witnesses. 

And Snipetonwas denied such consolation. 
His widowhood permitted no such second 
troth. Living to the world, his wife was 
dead to him ; yet though dead, not severed. — 
There was the horror : there, the foul condi- 
tion of disgraced wedlock : the flesh was still 
of his flesh, cancerous, ulcerous ; with a life 
in it to torture him. By day, that flesh of his 
flesh would wear him ; by night, with time and 
darkness lying like a weight upon him, would 
be to him as a fiend that would cling to him ; 
that would touch his lips ; that would murmur 
in his ear. And let him writhe, and struggle, 
and with a strong man’s strong will determine 
to put away that close tormentor, it would not 
be. The flesh was still of his flesh, alike 
incorporate in guilt and truth. 

But Snipeton is still a happy man. As yet 
he knows not of his misery ; dreams not of 
the desolation that, in an hour or ^so, shall 
blast him at his threshold. He is still at his 
desk ; happy in his day-dream ; his imagina- 
tion running over, as ' in wayward moments 
of half-thrift, half-idleness, it was wont to do, 
upon the paper on his desk before him. — Im- 
agination, complete and circling ; and making 
that dim sanctuary of dirty Plutus a glistening 
palace ! The pen — the ragged stump, that 
in his hand had worked as sufely as Italian 
steel, striking through a heart or so, but 
drawing no blood — the pen, as it had been 
plucked from the winged heel of the thief’s 
god. Mercury, worked strange sorcery ; crept 
and scratched about the paper, conjuring glo- 
ries there, that made the old man sternly 
smile ; even as an enchanter smiles at the in- 
stant handiwork of all obedient fiends. Rea- 
der, look upon the magic that, cunningly ex- 
ercised by the Snipetons of the world, fills it 
with beauty ; behold the jottings of the black 
art that, simple as they look, hold, like the 
knotted ropes of Lapland witches, a power 
invincible. Here they are ; faithfully copied 


from that piece of paper the tablet of old 
SnipcU‘n’s dearest tWights, divinest aspira- 
tions. — 

“ £70,000” — » £85,70C” — “ £90,000”— 
£100,000”—“ £160,000,”—“ £1,000,000 !” 
In this way did Snipeton — in pleasant, thrifty 
idleness — pour out his heart ; dallying with 
hope, and giving to the unuttered wish a cer- 
tain sum in black and white ; running up the 
figures as a rapturous singer climbs the gam- 
ut, touching the highest heaven of music to 
his own delight, and the wonder of the applau- 
ding world. 

In this manner would Snipeton take pastime 
with his spirit. In this manner v^as the pa- 
per on his desk writ and over-writ with pro- 
mised sums that, it was his hope, his day- 
dream, would surely some day bless him. And 
the numerals ever rose with his spirits. 
When very dumpish — with the world going 
all wrong with him — he would write himself 
down a pauper ; in bitterness of heart loving 
to enlarge upon his beggary, as thus : 000, 
000,000,000.' But to-day, he had ridden with 
Clarissa ; she had looked so lovely and so lo- 
ving ; he was so re-assured of her affection ; 
could promise to himself such honied day^ 
and nights that, dreaming over this ; smiling 
at her flushed face ; and with half-closed eyes, 
and curving mOuth, gazing in fancy at her 
dancing plume, — he somehow took the pen be- 
tween his fingers, and made himself a paradise 
out of arithmetic. — Thus he laid out his gar- 
den of Eden, circling it with rivers of run- 
ning gold ! How the paradise smiled upon pa- 
per ! How the trees, clustered with ruddy 
bearing, rose up ; how odorous the flow- 
ers — and what a breath of immortality came 
fluttering to his cheek ! Snipeton had writ- 
ten — 

“£ 1 , 000 , 000 ;” 

and then, he sank gently back in his chair, 
and softly drew his breath as he looked upon 
what should be his, foreshadowed by his hopes. 

Now, at the very moment — yes, by Satan’s 
best chronometer — at the very moment, Cla- 
rissa was lifted from her horse, placed in a 
carriage, and whirled away from home and 
husband. And he saw not her face of terror 
— heard .not her shriek for help. How could 
he? Good man! was he not in paradise? 
Let us not break in upon him. No ; for a 
while, blind and innocent, we will leave him 
there. 

The reader may remember that Mr. Cap- 
stick was threatened with an ignominious dis- 
missal from the British senate, as having, it 
was alleged, bought an honor that, like chas- 
tity, is too precious to be sold. This misan- 
thropic member for Liquorish, in liis deep con- 
tempt of all human dealings, took little heed 
of the petition against him ; whilst Tangle 
called it an ugly business, as though in truth 
he secretly rejoiced in such uncomeliness. 


180 


THE HISTORY OF 


Snipeton, too, looked grave ; and then, as ta- 
king heart from the depth of his pocket, said 
he would “ fight the young, profligate to his 
last guinea (and when the weapons are 
gold, how bloody oft the battle !). Whereupon 
Capstick relented a little in his savage thoughts 
believing that pure patriotism did exist in hu- 
man nature, and had one dwelling-place at 
least in the heart of Mr. Snipeton. 

“ Turn you out of Parliament, sir ; they 
might chuck you out o’ the window, sir, for 
what he’d care, if it warn’t for his spite. I’ve 
told you that all along, and you won’t see it,” 
said Bright Jem. 

“ I am sorry, Jem, that in your declining 
years — for there’s no disguising it, James — 
you’re getting old and earthy — cracking like 
dry clay, Jem ” — said Capstick. 

“ I don’t want to hide the cracks,” answer- 
ed Jem : “ why should I ? No ; I’m not afraid 
to look Time in the face, and tell him to do 
his worst. He never could spile much, that’s 
one comfort.” 

“ I am sorry, nevertheless, that you have 
not a little charity. If I don’t think well of 
any-body myself, that ’s no reason you 
shouldn’t; on the contrary, it is slightly an 
impertinence in you to interfere with what I’ve 
been used to consider my own privilege.” 
Thus, with dignity, spoke Capstick. 

“ All I know is this — and I’m sure of it — 
if Mrs. Snipeton had as big a wart upon her 
nose as her husband, you’d never have been 
member for Liquorish,” said Jem, )vith new 
emphasis. 

“ Really Mr. Aniseed ” — for Capstick be- 
came very lofty indeed — “ I cannot perceive 
how Mrs.. Snipeton ’s wart — that is, if she’d 
had one — could in any way interfere with my 
seat in Parliament.” 

“ in this manner,” said Jem ; laying one 
hand flat upon the other. “ In this manner. 
If she’d had a wart upon her nose, young St. 
James, when he went to borrow money of her 
husband, would have behaved himself like a 
honest young gentleman ; wouldn’t have writ- 
ten letters, and tried to send presents, and so 
forth, till old Snipeton — poor old fellow ! for 
though he was a fool to marry such a young 
beauty, there’s no knowing how any on us 
may be tempted ” — 

“ You and I are safe, I think, James ?” said 
Capstick, with a smile. 

“ I think so ; but don’t let’s be persumptious. 
However, that’s no reason why we shouldn’t 
pity the unfortinate,” said Jem. “ Well, old 
Snipeton wouldn’t have been forced to send 
his young wife into the country, where his 
young lordship went after her — I’ve heard 
rjl about it. And then Snipeton wouldn’t 
ha’ been jealous of the young gentleman, and 
then you’d have been at the Tub, happy with 
the pigs and the geese, as if they was your 
ow'n flesh and blood, and you’d still ha’ been 


■ I an independent country gentleman, walking 
1 j about in your own garden, and talking as you 
used to do, to your own trees and flowers, 
that minded you — I’m bound for it — more 
than any body in the house o’ Parliament will 
1 do.” 

“ Don’t you be too sure of that, Mr. 

; Aniseed. When the Minister hears my 
speech’ ’ — 

“ Well, I only hope my dream of last night 
won’t come true. I dreamt you’d made your 
speech and as soon as you’d made it, I thought 
you was changed into a garden roller, and 
the Minister, as you call him, did nothing but 
turn you round and round. Howsomever, 
that’s nothing to do with what I was saying, 

— saving your presence, I don’t like you to 
be made a tool on.” 

“ A tool, Mr. Aniseed ! A tool — define, 
if you please, for this is serious. What tool ?” 
and Capstick frowned. 

“ Well, I don’t know what sort of tool they 
send to Parliament ; but, if you’ll be so good, 
just feel here.” Saying this, Jem took off 
his hat, and turning himself, presented the 
back part of his head to the touch of Capstick. 

“ Bless my heart ! Dear me — a very 
dreadful wound! My poor fellow — good 
Jem” — and Capstick put his arm upon Jem’s 
neck, and with a troubled look, cried — “ Who 
was the atrocious miscreant ? — eh ! — the 
scoundrel !” 

“ Oh no : he didn’t mean nothing. You 
see, it was last night, while I was waiting 
for you till the House was up. Taking a 
quiet pint and a pipe among the other ser- 
vants, some on ’em begun to talk about bri- \ 
bery and corruption : and didn’t they sit there 
and pull their masters to pieces ; I should 
think a little more than they pulled one ano- 
ther to bits inside. Well, your name come 
up, and all about the petition ; and somebody 
said you’d be turned out ; condemned like a 
stale salmon at Billingsgate. I didn’t say ^ 
nothing to this : till Ralph Gum — the saucy 
varmint, though he’s my own flesh and blood ; 
that is, as far as marriage can make it” — 

“ Marriage can do a good deal that way,” 
said Capstick, smiling pensively. 

“ Till Ralph Gum — he was waiting for 
the Marquis — cried out, ‘ What ! Capstick, 
the mnff\n maker ?’ ” 

“ I do not forget the muffins,” said Cap- 
stick, meekly. “ On the contrary ; in Parlia- 
ment I shall be proud to stand upon them.” 

“ But he said more than that : ‘ Why, he’s 
a thing we’ll turn out neck and heels ; he’s 
only a tool !’ ” 

“ Oh, a tool !” cried Capstick, “ I am a 
tool, am I ? Very well : a tool ! What said 
you to this ?” 

“ Nothing — only this. He was sitting 
next to me, and I said, — ‘ You saucy monkey, 
hold your tongue, or learn better manners,’ 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


181 


— and with this, in the softest way in the 
world, I broke my pipe over his head : where- 
upon, the Marquis’s coachman and footmen 
all swore you were a tool, and nothing but 
a tool — and they wouldn’t see their livery in- 
sulted, and — I forget how it'ended, but there 
was a changing of pewter-pots, and somehow 
or other this” — and Jem passed his hand over 
his bruised head — ‘‘ this is one on ’em.” 

For a few minutes Capstick remained si- 
lent. At length he said, determinedly — 
“Jem, I feel that it would be some satisfac- 
tion to me to see this Mrs. Snipeton.” 

“ What for ?” asked Jem, in his simplicity. 

“ Why — well — I don’t know ; but if she is 
really what people say, there can be no harm 
in looking on a beautiful woman.” 

“ Well, I don’t know — but for certain, 
they’d never do no harm if they never was 
looked upon,” said Jem. 

“ Jem, you ought to know me by this time ; 
ought to know that since Mrs. Capstick died 
1 look upon beauty as no more than a pain- 
ted picture.” 

“ Well, that’s all right enough, so long as 
we don’t ask the picturs to walk out o’ their 
frameif’ answered Jem. “ But, sir, in this 
Parliament matter — and I’d sooner die than 
tell a lie to you, in the same way I as I think it 
my bound duty to tell you all the truth, though 
, you do call me James and Mr* Aniseed, in- 
stead of Jem, for doing it — in this Parliament 
matter, master,” — and Jem paused, and look- 
ed mournfully at Capstick. 

“ Out with it,” said the Member for Liquo- 
rish. “ After the hustings, surely I can bear 
anything. Speak.” 

“ Well, then, and you’ll not be offended? But 
if ever there was a tool in Parliament, mas- 
ter — now, don’t be hurt — you are a tool, and 
nothing better than a tool. There ! When 
they were flinging pewter pots about last night, 
I didnM; choose to own as much ; now, when 
we’re together, I must say it. Member for 
Liquorish ! La, bless you ! as I said afore, 
you’re a Member for Spite and Revenge, 
and all sorts of wickedness.” 

“ I certainly will see Mrs. Snipeton,” said 
Capstick, “ and to-morrow, Jem ; yes, to-mor- 
row.” 

In pursuit of this determination, Mr. Cap- 
stick — with no forewarning of his intended 
visit to the master of the house — opened the 
garden gate,- and proceeded up the path to 
the cottage, followed by Bright Jem ; who in 
his heart was hugely pleased at the uncere- 
monious manner in which his master stalked, 
like a sheriff’s officer, into -the sanctuary of 
wedded love, or what is more, of wedded jea- 
lousy : calm, authoritative, self-contained, as 
though he came to take j)ossession of the 
dove-cote. Even Dorothy Vale was startled 
by the abrupt intrusion ; and looking from 
the door, and rubbing her arms with quick- 


ened energy, begged to know “ what they 
wanted there?” Ere, however, Capstick 
could descend to make due answer, llecky 
ran from the door, with many a voluble “ dear 
heart and “ who’d ha’ thought it !” and “ is 
your honor well ?” 

“Very well, my maid; very well,” said 
Capstick. “ I should like to see Mrs. Snipe- 
ton.” 

“ La ! now, what ill luck,” cried Becky, 
“ she’s gone out a horseback with master ; 
but she won’t be long, if you’ll only be so 
good as to walk in, and wait a little while ; 
she’s such a sweet lady, she’ll be glad to see 
you.” 

Dorothy said nothing ; but hugging and rub- 
bing her arms, looked sidelong at the new 
maid ; looked at her, as one, whose glib tongue 
had in one minute talked away her place ; 
for assuredly did Dorothy, even in lier dim 
vision, see Becky with her bundle trundled 
from the house, as soon as Mr. Snipeton 
should learn the treason of his handmaid. 

“ I’ll walk about the garden till they come 
back,” said Capstick ; “ I’m fond of flow* 
ers ; very fond.” 

“ They won’t come back together ; for 
Master’s gone to Lunnun; but the young 
man, the new servant” 

“ Ha 1 the young man that took you from 
St. Mary Axe,” said Jem, and Becky nodded 
and colored. 

“ Both of you new together, it seems,” ob- 
served Capstick, meaning nothing ; though 
Becky, coloring still deeper, thought she 
saw a world of significance in the careless 
words of the Member of Parliament. But 
then it was a Member of Parliament who 
spoke ; and there must be something in eve- 
ry syllable he uttered. That he should cou- 
ple herself and St. Giles was very odd : quite 
a proof that he knew more than most people. 

Capstick had lounged up the garden, Dor- 
othy marvelling at his ease ; whilst Jem held 
short discourse with Becky. “ And he’s 
a good honest young man, eh ? Well, he 
looks like it,” said Jem. 

“I never goes by looks, I don’t,” said 
Becky “ Talking about looks, how is that 
dark young man you knocked in the gutter ? 
Your nevey, sir, isn’t he ? How is he 1” 

“ Why, 1 may say, my dear, he’s in the 
gutter still, and there let him be. But as 
for your fellow servant, I think” — said Jem 
— “ I think he’s an honest young fellow.” 

“ I should break my heart do you know — 
I mean — I should be so sorry — in course I 
should — ^if he wasn't. He’s so good temper- 
ed ; so quiet-spoken ; so willing to give a hel- 
ping-hand to anybody. And yet for all this, 
somehow or t’other, he doesn’t seem himself. 
One minute he’ll be merry as a Sultan ; and 
afore you can speak, his face will go all into 
a shadow. Can’t be happy, I think.” 


182 


THE HISTORY OF 


“ Perhaps, not,” said Jem ; “ I wasn’t my- 
self when I was about his time of life. Per- 
haps. Becky, perhaps he’s in love.” 

“ Don’t know. I’m sure ; how should I,” 
said Becky, turning short upon her heel ; 
whilst Jem followed his master, at length re- 
solved to narrate to him the history of St. 
GUes. ^ Again and again Jem had attempted 
it*; and* then stopt, huddling up the story as 
best he could. For the new dignity of Cap- 
stick had made him — as Jem sometimes 
thought — cold and cautious ; and after all, 
it might not be proper to bring together a re- 
turned transport and a member of parliament. 
The garden was winding and large ; but Jem 
could not well miss his master, inasmuch as 
the orator was heard very loudly declaiming ; 
and Jem, following the sound, speedily came 
up with Capstick, who, with his hat upon 
the ground, his right arm outstretched, and 
his left tucked under his left coat-tail, was 
vehemently calling upon “ the attention, 
and the common-sense, if he was not too bold 
in asking such a favor” of a triple row of tall 
hollyhocks, representing for the time the 
Members of the House of Commons, and un- 
consciously playing their parts with great 
fidelity, by nodding — nodding at every sen- 
tence that fell from the honorable orator. 
“ There is nothing like exercising the lungs 
in the pure air,” said Capstick, slightly con- 
fused ; and picking up his hat, and falling into 
his usual manner. 

“ I think I should know what it was,” said 
Jem, “ calling coaches in a November fog ; 
jest like hallooing through wet blankets.” 

“ Demosthenes — you never heard of him — 
but that’s no matter : Demosthenes,” said 
Capstick, “ used to speak to the sea.” 

“ Well ; he’d the best on it in one way,” 
said Jem ; “ the fishes couldn’t contradict him. 
But surely, now — upon your word, sir — you 
don’t really mean to make a speech in Parlia- 
ment !” Capstick’s eye glistened. — “ You 
do ? Lord help you ; when, sir — when ?” 

“ Well, Jem, I can’t answer for myself. 
Perhaps, to-night — perhaps, to-morrow. If 
I’m provoked, Jem.” 

“Provoked, sir! Who’s to provoke you, 
if you’re determined to sit with your mouth 
shut ?” said Jem. 

“ The truth is, Jem, I had resolved to sit a 
whole session, and not say a syllable. But I 
shall be aggravated to speak, I know I shall. i 
The fact is, I did think I should be abashed 
— knocked clean down — by the tremendous 
wisdom before, behind me, on all sides of me. 
Now — it isn’t so, Jem,” and Capstick looked 
big. “ I did think my great difficulty would 
be to speak ; whereas, hearing what I do hear, 
the difficulty for me is to hold my tongue. 
In this way — I feel it — I shall be made an 
orator of aguinst my will. By the way, Jem, 
talking of oratory, just sit down in that arbor 


• and fancy yourself the House of Commons.” 

“ Couldn’t do it, sir.” Capstick imperative- 
ly waved his arm. “ Well, then, — there, 
sir,’’ said Jem ; and he seated himself bolt 
upright in a honeysuckle bower, and took off 
his hat, and smoothed down his few speck- 
led hairs ; and put on a face of gravity. 

“ That wont do at all,” wied Capstick. 
“ I just want to try a little speech, and that’s 
not a bit like4;he House of Commons. No ; 
roll yourself about ; and now whistle a little 
bit ; and now put on your hat ; and now 
throw your legs upon the seat ; and above 
all, seem to be doing anything but listening 
to me. If you seem to attend to what I say, 
you’ll put me out at once. Not at all parlia- 
mentary, Jem.” 

“ Shall I shuffle my legs, and drum my fin- 
gers upon the table ? Will that do ?” cried 
Jem. 

“ Pretty well : that will be something,” an- 
swered Capstick. 

“ Or, I tell you what, sir, — if, while you 
was making your oration, I was to play upon 
this Jew’s harp” — and Jem produced that 
harmonious iron from his waistcoat pocket — ■ 
“ would that be parliamentary and noisy 
enough ?” 

“ VVe’Il try the Jew’s-harp,” replied Cap- 
stick, “ for I have heard much more worse 
noises since I sat for Liquorish. Wait a 
minute” — for Jem began to preludise — “ and 
let me explain. The motion I am going to 
make, Jem, is to shorten the time in the pil- 
lory.” Jem shook his head hopelessly. “Ac- 
cording to the law, as at present operating, 
the time of the pillory is one hour. Now, I 
don’t want to be called a revolutionist, Jem ; 

I dont want to array all the respectability and 
all the property of the land against me — ” 

“ Don’t, sir, don’t ; if you love your precious 
peace of mind, don’t think of it,” cried Jem. 

“ Therefore, I do not at present intend to 
move the total abolition of the pillory,’* said 
Capstick. 

“ You’d be stoned in the streets, if you did. 
People will bear a good deal, sir ; but they 
won’t have their rights interfered with in that 
manner. Do take care of yourself, pray do. 

I shouldn’t like to see you in the tower,” said 
Jem, with genuine tenderness. “ Let the 
pillory alone, sir ; touch that, and folks will 
swear you’re going to lay your hands upon 
[the golden crown next; for it’s wonderful 
what they do mix up with the crown some- 
times, to be sure.” 

“ Fear not, Jem. I shall respect the 
prejudices of my countrymen ; and therefore 
shall only move that the time in the pillory 
shall henceforth be reduced from one hour to 
half. That’s gentle, I think?” 

Jem stroked his chin — shook his head. 
“ I know what they’ll call it, sir : interfering 
with the liberty of the subject. No, they’ll 


I 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


183 


say, — our forefathers, and their father’s afore 
’em, all stocjd an hour, and why shouldn’t we?” 

“ I’m prepared for a little opposition, Jem ; 
but, just fancy yourself the House, while 1 
speak my speech. Make as much noise, and 
be as inattentive as possible, and then I shall 
get on.” Jem obediently buzzed — buzzed 
with the Jew’s harp, shambled with his feet, 
rocked himself backwards and forwards ; and, 
to the extent of his genius, endeavored to 
multiply himself into a very full House. 

Capstick took off his hat — held forth his 
right arm as before, with the supplementary 
addition of a piece of paper in his hand, and 
again with his other arm supported his left 
coat-tail. “ Sir” — said Capstick, looking as 
full as he could at Jem, who rocked and shift- 
ted every minute — Sir, it was an observa- 
tion of a Roman emperor — ’ ” 

“ Which one ?” asked Jem. 

“ That’s immaterial,” answered Capstick. 
“ A question that will certainly not be asked 
in debate. I take a Roman emperor as some- 
thing strong to begin with — ‘ of a'Roman em- 
peror that Quifacit 'per aliurrC ” — 

“ Hallo ! ” cried Jem, holding the Jew’s-harp 
wide away from his mouth ; “ what’s that — 
Latin ?” 

“ Latin,” answered Capstick. 

“ W'ell — my stars !” — said Jem — “ I never 
knowed that you knowed Latin.” 

“ Nor did I, Jem,” replied Capstick smiling- 
ly. “ But I don’t know how it is : when a 
man once gets into Parliament, Latin seems 
to come upon him as a matter of course. 
Now go on with your Jew’s-harp, and make 
as much noise as you like, but don’t speak to 
me. ’Tisn’t parliamentary. Now then,” and 
Capstick resumed the senator — “ ‘ it was an 
observation of a Roman emperor’ ” — 

“ If you please, sir, I’ve laid some bread 
and cheese and ale in the parlor,” said Becky, 
breaking in upon the debate. “It’s a hot 
day, sir, and I thought you might be tired.” 
“ Humph ! Well, — I don-’t know. What, 
Jem,” — asked Capstick, smacking his lips — 
“ what do you propose ?” 

“ Why,” answered Jem, rising, “ I propose 
that the House do now adjourn.” 

Capstick returned the paper to his pocket, 
and taking up his hat, said — “ I second the 
motion.” After a very short pause, he added 
— “And it is adjourned accordingly.” Where- 
uj)on, he and Jem turned to follow Becky, 
who had run on before them, down another 
path. In less than a minute, however, a 
shriek rang through the garden. 

“ Why, that’s the gall ! she’s hurt surely,” 
cried Jem. 

“ Pooh, nonsense,” said Capstick, quicken- 
ing his pace, “ it’s nothing ; taken a frog for 
a crocodile — or something of the sort. Wo- 
men love to squall ; it shows their weakness. 
It can’t be anything—” , 


“ Oh, sir — sir — sir — ” cried Becky, flying 
up the garden, and rushing to Capstick, — 
“ they’ve stole her — carried her off— my dear, 
dear missus !” 

“ Carried off ! Mrs. Snipeton — the lady” — 
exclaimed Capstick. 

“ Stole her away by force — oh, my poor 
master — oh, my dear missus — the young man 
will tell you all — master’s heart will break — 
my sweet lady !” And Becky with flowing 
tears, wrung her hands, and was as one pos- 
sessed. 

“ Why ? Eh — what is all this ?” said Cap- 
stick to St. Giles, who looked pale and stu- 
pified. “ Fellow, what’s this ?” 

“ I’U tell you all about it, sir,” — said St. 
Giles, hastily. “ The lady’s horse was swift- 
er than mine — I could no how keep up with 
her. And when we turned out of Highgate 
we ” — ^here St. Giles turned deathly pale, and 
his feet sliding from under him, he fell to the 
earth. 

“ He’s dead — he’s dead,” cried Becky, fall- 
ing upon her knees at his side, and lifting up 
his head, when her hands were instantly co- 
vered with blood, drawn by the cudgel of 
Blast. On this she renewed her screams ; 
renewed her exclamations of despair. “ He 
was dead — murdered.” 

At this minute old Snipeton ran, reeling 
up the path. Dorothy Vale, more by her 
chalk-like face, than with her tongue, had 
revealed the mischief to her master. “ Mis- 
sus was gone — carried off— the man was up 
the garden.” His life — nothing but his life 
— should satisfy the cheated husband. Snipe- 
ton rushed to the group ; and when he saw 
St. Giles prostrate, insensible, the old man, 
grinding his teeth, howled his curses, and, in 
very impotence, worked his hands like a de- 
mon balked of his revenge. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

We will not linger with Snipeton. For 
why cast away sympathy — that essence of 
our moral being — upon an old, money-lovin.g 
man, gulled of his youthful wife ? Where- 
fore pity him, made, hy the lucky boldness 
of hired knavery, retained and paid by scoun- 
drel cowardice, the living joke of the best 
society, shaking its sides at the best of clubs ? 
Had the miserable man been left upon the 
road, with out-turned pockets, and a medica- 
ble bruise or gash or two, why, there would 
have been no jest whatever in the dull mis- 
hap ; the robbery and the wound might have 
passed among the serious things that length- 
en even careless faces. But how different 
the casualty! A man — an old man — and 


184 


THE HISTORY OP 


the quintessence of the drollery lay in his 
wrinkles — had been robbed of his other self ; 
had had his very being rent in twain, and to 
think of his loss was rarest comedy — to pic- 
ture him writhing in the agony of that forced 
separation was to crow with laughter. Such 
was the compassion bestowed by men upon 
the old money-merchant, as rumor, like a 
wild-goose, cackled as she flew. Therefore, 
for a time, we will leave Snipeton at his sol- 
itary hearth. No; not solitary. For now 
the figure, the features of his wife— the run- 
away ; yes, there was the horror ; there the 
burning truth that poisoned the wound — were 
multiplied about him. It would have been some 
relief to the tortured — a passing breath cool- 
ing the damned — to think that beautiful mis- 
chief the victim of violence : but no ; she had 
clubbed her share of cunning ; she had play- 
ed a free part in the wickedness ; she had 
fled from him ; and he could hear her laugh- 
ter at the trick. And then those very nu- 
merals — things that in pleasant idleness of 
heart he had jotted down, as fancied guards 
and retinue of wealth, to glorify and do hom- 
age to that idol of his home — they rose in his 
brain like sparks of fire, and he howled and 
whined like idiotcy. And at the same time, 
as we have said, there was great laughter^ 
very great enjoyment at the clubs. 

The scene is shifted: night has passed 
away. For a time poor Snipeton sat with 
his eyes upon the hand of the clock as 
though he watched a dagger aimed to strike 
him. And the hand moved from hour to hour ; 
and then, in deep night, as one on whom 
despair had fastened, not to be loosed but at 
the grave, he sat in silent, sullen misery. 

The scene is shifted. We are miles away 
in pleasant Surry. In an old house — old as 
the gnarled elms and oaks that majestically 
stand, the sylvan guards around it — is Snip- 
ton’s stolen wife. That house is the abiding- 
place of the luckless horseman thrown from 
his steed at Hampstead, and duly tended by 
Crossbone, and duly robbed by Blast. Acci- 
dent and sickness save a world of ceremony, 
and the patient and the surgeon were in 
briefest season, fast friends. You may grow 
a friendship quick as a salad, that like the 
salad, shall serve the required purpose; and 
so it was with the intimacy sprung up twixt 
Shoveller and Crossbone. Shoveller was 
pleased to call himself a — man of the world. 
We say pleased ; for he proclaimed his title, 
as though it was one of honor ; a distinction 
stoutly won at the Battle of Guineas — (what 
Gazette shall number the killed and wounded 
of that still fought field ?) — and therefore to 
be mightily proud of. He would say, “ I am 
a man of the world indicating that he was 
wholly and entirely of the world: that he 
dealt with facts ; hard facts ; hard and real 
as the world he felt with his soles ; and quite 


a different matter from the misty, cloudy 
world, that swam above his head. He was 
a man of the world — a real bit of its real 
loam ; unalloyed by any thought that for a 
moment should lift him off his feet. When 
a sage of this sort says, “ I am a man of the 
world ;” he means, with significant empha- 
sis to impart — “ I have been such a hard stu- 
dent of the ways of this world ; that, between 
ourselves — so you may speak your wishes 
safely, and without offence — between our- 
selves, my good and sudden friend, I have 
not yet had a spare minute to throw away 
upon the next.” 

And Crossbone was also a man of the 
world. Hence, he felt himself drawn to- 
wards Shoveller, even as two dead logs in a 
pond are attracted to one another. In the 
very dawn and roseate blush of their friend- 
ship, Mr. Shoveller had informed Crossbone 
that he was the owner of snug, retired nook, 
buried away amid trees in a wild patch of 
country ; a solitary house, without, as he ob- 
served the curse of neighbors. He had seen 
so much of town-life in his days — at times, 
too, mixed so very actively amongst the com- 
pany of London — that now and then, he felt 
it absolutely necessary to the preservation of 
his health, nay, even of his life — to be turned 
out to a bit of grass. iVnd as Mr. Shoveller 
spoke, the face of Crossbone was lighted 
from an inner light; for his fancy glowed 
with a pleasant picture — that of Mrs. Snipe- 
ton spirited from her chastised lord — justly 
punished for the offence of marriage — and 
dwelling, like a wood-dove, for a timely sea- 
son, at least, in that pleasant hermitage. 

Briefly, Mr. Shoveller offered his house 
and household devils — for surely sometimes 
the lares have cloven feet and barbed tails — 
to the service of Mr. Crossbone ; who, with- 
out offence at the spirit of hospitality, in the 
prettiest manner hinted at hard payment at 
an early day. Whereupon, Mr. Shoveller 
professed his readiness to engage a dear and 
valued friend or two — he had a large bosom 
for friends, that man ; and could, upon occa- 
sion, have lodged all Newgate — to form an 
escort for the lady, from the perils of the 
journey. And Mr. S^lioveller kept his word ; 
it was his pride to do so ; and the greater the 
mischief to be done, the more binding did he 
seem to hold the engagement. 

It was the morning after the service ac- 
complished by Mr. Shoveller, and he and 
Crossbone walked in the little orchard : walk- 
ed as friends would walk, newly knit togeth- 
er by rascal wrong ; they both took pains to 
be at ease. 

“ A sweet place here ; a very sweet place,” 
said Crossbone. 

“ Why, yes; the grass is as green here as 
any where ; the birds sing as well, and tlie 
flowers are as fresh ; but what of that ?” an- 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


185 


swered the philosophic Shoveller, *• I never 
care to brag.” 

“No man of the world does,” said Cross- 
bone. “ Bless me ! what a crop of apples 
you’ll have !” 

“ And pears, and plums, and cherries,” 
said Shoveller, slowly ; and then he added, 
“ Mrs. Snipeton has a devilish pretty mouth. 
And to think her lips should keep so red ; 
when, I doubt not, winter has touched them 
so often. Ha ! ha ! Poor litile kitten ! How 
she pouted ! Well, if I love to see anything, 
it is now and then to look upon a pretty wo- 
man in a tearing rage.” 

We know not what recollection darkened 
Crossbone's mind — he had known the sor- 
rows of widowhood, and perhaps felt them 
anew — but he gazed with mixed sadness and 
surprise at Mr. Shoveller. “ Taste is every 
thing ; it’s the salt of life ; without it we should 
be as like one another as snails ; and for what 
I know, have just as ^uch enjoyment. Nev- 
ertheless there is a taste that grovvs into a 
disease ; and, pardon me, ray dear friend, if I 
think a taste for a lady in a rage, is a taste 
of that very sort. Now cannibalism is only 
a taste, nothing more. Nevertheless, though 
— as men of the world— we may flay one 
another, we respect the decencies of life and 
stop there.’’ — Thus spoke Crossbone. 

“ It is such a pretty sight ” — said Shovel- 
ler, returning to the picture— “to see what 
they would do, with what they only do. When 
I lifted her from her horse, her little white 
hand grasped me, as it would tear me to bits. 
‘Don’t madam,’ said I; ‘I’m ticklish, and 
shall laugh :’ and when I put her in the car- 
riage, and placed myself beside her, she look- 
ed at me, as though she thought her eyes 
burning-glasses that must make tinder of rno ; 
and worked her precious lips, as though they 
were crossbows shooting twenty deaths at 
me. And then — but I asked her pardon like 
a gentleman — and then I laughed — I couldn’t 
help it. Oh, I do love a woman in a rage ; 
it gives the pretty thing such animation : turns 
60 much that seems like china- work into real 
flesh and blood.” 

“ And nails,” Crossbone was about to say ; 
but with an after-thought ho waived the sub- 
ject, as painful, and observed- — “ You don t 
think it possible Mrs. Snipeton can see me 
here ? Because you know, my dear friend, 

I must not* be known in this business ; that 
is, unless professionally.” 

“ Do you see that hand ?” said Shoveller, 
exhibiting his right palm close under Cross- 
bone’s eye. 

“ Perfectly well ; I once studied chiroman- 
cy — that is, as a boy — and I can see that your 
hand was made ” 

“ For roasted chestnuts.” 

Crossbone stared. 

“ Nay, nay, you are, you know it, a man 


of the world. The chesnut is in the house 
there ; and this is the hand — the paw of poor 
puss — that you have used to ” 

“ Now my dear friend,” exclaimed Cross- 
bone, ^Apprehending the intended application, 
“ if I thought you thought so, I assure you 
it would make me very unhappy. Very un- 
happy, indeed. You see mine is avery difli- 
cult, a very delicate part. For to-morrow, I 
must see Mr. Snipeton.” 

“ And, perhaps,” said Shoveller with his 
best gravity, “ perhaps prescribe for him.” 

“ Should his condition require it ” — assent- 
ed Crossbone — “ prescribe for him.” 

“ Well, as you know the seat of his com- 
plaint,” — and Shoveller jerked his head to- 
wards the house — “ no one better — you’ll 
have but little trouble vyith him. Poor old 
man ! Don’t bleed him much. Ha ! ha !” 

“ Don t sport with surghry. It has been 
my weakness — I may say, very unprofitable 
weakness — to have too much respect for my 
profession. I love it so dearly, I can’t suffer 
a joke upon it. Hark!” cried Crossbone, 
and he turned towards the road and listened 
— “ hark ! Own me a wizard, now. That’s 
a horse. 

“ Well in the worst of times, you couldn’t 
have been burned for that prophecy,” said 
Shoveller. 

Yes ; but a horse that carries a lover. 
There’s a beating heart at full gallop and — 
did I not say so ?’’ and Crossbone receding 
behind a shrub pointed to young St. James 
as he slackened his pace at the house. “Now, 
my dear friend, I must leave you ; I must 
wait upon his lordship. You know your 
promise. — I mean— our bargain ? The 
house — ” 

“ Is his lordship’s,” cried Shoveller ; and 
that man of the world looked very wise. — 
“ The house, and all that’s in it. I know 
true hospitality ; especially, when paid for. 
I have the honor. Doctor Crossbone — ” 

“ Not yet : no diploma just yet,” said Cross- 
bone, meekly ; and with a faint smile. 

“ Oh, it’s coming fast, now. When ras- 
cality — not, my dear friend, that I mean ras- 
cality — I would speak as a man of the world 
— when rascality succeeds, dignity as a mat- 
ter of course must follow. Therefore again 
Dr. Crossbone, I have the honor to wish you 
a good morning ; and more, the unbounded 
gratitude of your excellent and noble employ- 
er.” With this wish, gravely delivered, and 
a dignified movement of the hat, Mr. Shov- 
eller resigned his place of host to the apoth- 
ecary, and struck down the garden, away into 
the fields ; perhaps to meditate on life, and 
all its doings. 

Ere the reader could learn this much, 
Crossbone was at the side of his lordship, who, 
dismounting, resigned his horse to Ralph 
Gum : and that very intelligent youth looked 


186 


THE HISTORY OF 


at Crossbone, and then looked at the house, 
as though his moral sense took a good hear- 
ty snuff at some mysterious mischief, and 
enjoyed it hugely. “Your lordship,” said 
Crossbone, “ shall not the horses be put up ? 
There’s stabling — ” 

“No: at least, not for the present. He 
has his orders,” said St. James, who was then 
bowed into the house, and Gum buried in 
thought, walked the horses down the road. 
It was very certain that his lordship was 
committed to some piece of pleasant kna- 
very ; and the young man felt compliment- 
ed that, ever so humbly, he had been permit- 
ted to mix in it. Wages musL be raised. 

Crossbone led St. James into a large low 
room ; plainly, but solidly appointed. The 
oaken furniture was black and shining with 
age and husvyifery : — and a few pictures on 
the walls — portraits of long since forgotten 
churchyard earth — looked coldly, gloomily, 
on the intruders. The young lord seemed ill 
at ease, like one who had given up liis con- 
science to the keeping of another, yet fear- 
ed to call him to account for the trust. Now 
he glanced moodily at Crossbone, and now 
with his whip, beat at his boot. But Cross- 
bone — happy in his triumph !— marked it not. 
He had succeeded in so great an attempt ; he 
had such a radiant captive to adorn his vic- 
tory, that he marked not the ingratitude of 
the man so undeservedly made happy. Cross- 
bone expanded himself, body and soul, that 
he might receive all the blessings to be pour- 
ed down upon him. And at length his lord- 
ship, looking full at his benefactor, observed, 
“ Well, sir?” 

Crossbone winced a little ; only for a mo- 
ment. And theti vigorously smiling, and 
bowing, and throwing apart his arms, as if 
with the action he would open his very heart, 
said, “My lord; my dear lord — if, on this 
happy occasion, you will allow me to call 
you so — I congratulate you. At length, you 
are in the very house” 

“ And whose mansion may it be ?” ques- 
tioned St. James, glancing to and fro. 

“ Oh for that matter, my lord, your lord- 
ship’s own ; that I have settled — your own, 
so long as you shall deign to use it. You 
are master” — and Crossbone laughed like a 
tickled demon — “ master of the house and all 
the house contains.” 

“ And that, Mr. Crossbone, doesn't seem 
to promise much,” said the ungrateful young 
nobleman. 

Crossbone smiled, as conscious knowledge 
may be allowed to smile, and with his left- 
hand fingers coaxed his chin. He then min- 
cingly approached St. James, and like one 
about to speak a spell ineffable, said “ Mrs. 
Snipeton” — and then the apothecary paused, 
and stared. As well he might : for that very 
ardent young nobleman the lord St. James, 


did not spring to his feet, re-echoing the sil- 
ver name. No : his lordship — gravely as he 
would have set in parliament, had not the 
democratic, misanthropic muffin-maker de- 
feated him — his lordship for the second time, 
made answer “ Well, sir 1” 

“ Mrs. Snipeton, my lord, is at this moment, 
in this house,” cried Crossbone, with the em- 
phasis of an injured man. 

“ Is it possible ?” exclaimed St. James^ and 
his blood rose to his face. 

“ Permit me to observe, my lord” — said 
Crossbone, naturally affected, hurt by the 
late placidity of his patron — “ that to devo- 
tion, and fidelity, with a little intelligence — 
lor true wisdom never brags — I defy my en- 
emies to say it of me — all things are possi- 
ble. Mrs. Snipeton is here : here, my lord, 
without” — and the apothecary chuckled at 
the thought, it was so droll — “ without Mr. 
Snipeton.” 

It was very strange — very odd, what could 
his lordship be composed of ? He showed 
no sign of an attempt to snatch the apotheca- 
ry to his arms ; in the gratitude of that warm 
embrace, forgetful, for one fleeting moment, 
ol the world and its ceremonies that ought 
to make the gap between them. No; as 
though his lordship was sitting for a statue 
of patriotism, or stoicism, or any other virtue 
to be wrought in stone for a very miserable 
posterity — lor as the Vv^orld, upon the best 
authority, with every generation gets worse 
and^worse, in due time the demi-gods of one 
age will of course become the Troglodytes 
or Cretins of another — as though we say, his 
lordship had posed himself for a sculptor, to 
go down a seated giant to future dwarfs, so 
did he listen to the tremendous intelligence 
uttered by Crossbone. Is gratitude extinct ? 
— thought Crossbone — passed from the world 
with its dragons and griffins? Crossbonc 
was not a man to weep : nevertheless, he 
thought he felt a moistening of the eyes, as 
he looked upon the extraordinary indifference 
of his friend and patron. Would he never 
speak ? 

At length his lordship somewhat relieved 
his faithful vassal. “ Mrs. Snipeton here ? 
Alone ? Without her husband, you say ? 
Humph ! And how is this ?” 

“You know not, my lord — no, and you 
never shall know — the pains I have taken, 
the danger I have risked to ensure your hap- 
piness in this matter. You never shall know 
it.” 

“ And was the lady carried off by force ?” 
Crossbone paused. “ Answer me, man ; was 
violence used ? Speak,” cried St. James. 

“ Why, that is-^gentle violence. The 
—the sort of violence that is not displeasing to 
any of the sex. Just a violence that is nS;h- 
ing more than complimentary to the dear 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


187 


things : enough to keep up appearances ; not 'servant, mounted on a wretched horse-Sho- 

^ 4 ' ou® j i fellow, had taken care of that — 

• fehe struggled— screamed— and”— j could not keep up with her, and to bring the 

Yes; there were all the graces, all the 'story to an end, there was a little squealing 
et ceteras, and little flourishes used on such —just for appearance— when Mrs. Snipeton 
occasions ; but, as I say, not a whit more, my i was safely deposited in a carriage. The 
lord, than enough to keep up appearances, horses tore along— and here she is.” 

The lady felt that she was being torn— yes, I » You are a bold practitioner, Mr. Cross- 
torn is the word with the world— torn from ’bone,” said St. James, with a disturbed look : 
an old and ugly husband ; and submitted to ' a look that indicated perplexed thoughts that 
the operation with proper fortitude. But for spoke of growing hesitation. “And there 
appearances, as I say, she’d have squealed ’was not much violence?” added the young 
no more than a rose-bud pulled from a bush ’ lord, slowly. 

— a nectarine twitched from a tree.” j “ Just as much as I hav^ said, my lord ; 

“ Come, sir ”— and young 8t. James smi-may, hardly that. The truth is, I believe- 
led, though somewhat sourly, “ you shall tell indeed, 1 am sure— the pretty creature knew 
me all about it.” — for women have shrewd guesses in such 

Never did veteran tell the story of his lau- matters — knew where she was coming — 
rels with greater relish than Crossbcne felt 'knew whom she was to meet — and so, yes, 
as he narrated the history of his conquest, so, my lord, behaved herself accordingly.” 

_ “ Humph ! it may be. I wish I could think 
it,” muttered St. James. 

“ You may soon assure yourself, my lord. 
The lady is, I say, in this house. After much 
therefore, urged by a sudden friendship for j toil and trouble and — but, as I have said,! 
your lordship — if you will permit me to use | won’t brag, it isn’t my way — she is here — 
the delightful word — I was determined, to j under this roof — upstairs” — for the coldness 
gratify you. But it was necessary for both,' of St. James made Crossbone emphatically 

1 .. 4-^ CC 1 ^1 1 I 1 ?_ 


“ You see my lord, I knew your heart was 
set upon this matter ; and therefore, though 
there are people in the world who may af- 
fect to lift their eyebrows at the transaction. 


of us, that I should go warily to work. Hence 
in my professional capacity, I threw in the 
necessity of horse-flesh, that I might get the 
lady from under her husband’s roof. This 
settled, my next care was to secure a sweet 
sequestered spot, far from the meddling in- 
trusion of a scandalous world ; and fortune, 
seconding my wish, flung the owner of this 
house into my hands, — a pliant, easy man, 
my lord, who knows the worth of money. 
By the way, my lord, your servant — I mean 
the fellow you gave me as a follower — is, by 
no mieans, a man for our work. When the 
woman was in our power — that is, in the 
power of my friends, for it would have spoilt 
all had I mixed in the matter — the rascal 
would have fought for her, when he was 
levelled by as pretty a blow 1 am told as ever 
fell to the lot of a fool. We must get rid ot 
him, my lord, that’s plain. Well, my lord, 
my friend Mr. Shoveller- 


precise — “ and, in a word, my lord, here is 
the key.” 

As the apothecary suddenly presented that 
domestic implement to St. James, he uncon- 
sciously recoiled from it as from some mor- 
tal mischief. “ A prisoner — locked up !” 
cried the young man. 

“Why, my lord, after so much ado to cage 
the bird, think you I’d leave the door open ?” 
Thus spoke Crossbone, and with an impa- 
tience a little disrespectful of his hearer’s 
rank. But, it must be confessed — even by 
the most ceremonious — that when a man, 
for the sake of friendship and a little alloy 
of gold, risks the reward of felony, it is some- 
what trying to the spirit to be met with the 
blank face and wandering eye of the gentle- 
man assisted. Crossbone felt smitten to the 
soul as he still felt the key between his fin- 
gers — still saw the young nobleman regard 
the piece of cold iron as iron ; nothing more ; 


“ And who is Mr. Shoveller ?” asked St. and not the instrument that, with a turn, 


James drily. 

“ Oh, the owner of this quiet little castle. 
A snug, silent retreat, is it not, my lord ?” 

St. James cast no complimentary look at 
the walls, and then motioned Crossbone to 
continue. 

My story, ’ said the apothecary, with com- 
mendable spirit, considering the coldness of 
his hearer, “ my story is now soon told. The 
lady had left her husband on his road to Lon- 
don — to St. Mary Axe, my lord ; you know 
the den — strewed with the bones of young 
spendthrifts, though we can’t see ’em, my 
lord — well, she had left him, and her rascal 


would open a gate of Paradise. And then 
pride — it was very natural — arose in the 
breast of the apothecary ; and with a cold, 
thick voice, he said — “ What am I to under- 
stand, my lord ? Will you take the key, or 
will you” — the alternative was tremendous 
— “ leave it alone ?” 

Instantly St. James snatched the key, and 
Crossbone felt lighter by many a hundred 
weight. “ Upstairs ?” cried St. James. 

“Upstairs, my dear lord” — answered Cross- 
bone — “ along the passage, and the first door 
to the right.” St. James quitted the room ; 
and the apothecary sank in a chair, in one 


IBS 


THE HISTORY OF 


✓ 


heap of thankfulness. Deluded man ! He 
had little cause for thanksgiving ; but then, 
he knew not as St. James mounted the stairs 
what virtuous resolution accompanied that 
good young gentleman ; knew not, that his 
noble friend — tlie friend for whom he had 
worked so hardly, had risked so much, turned 
loathingly from him, as from so much moral 
carrion. Again and again had the visionary 
carriage-wheels rumbled in the ears of Cross- 
bone : again had he seen himself the court 
physician ; again had he laid his finger on 
that most wondrous mecliaiiism, a royal pulse 
— and now wh’Ist St. James trod the stairs, 
the day-dream came full and glowijig on the 
rapt apothecary ; and he satin clouds of hap- 
piness. 

Now and then, it is well for the peace, the 
self complacency of folks, determined to con- 
sider themselves very worthy individuals — 
that the world is a world of masks 'hat 
thought, the face of the mind, may laugh 
or frown unseen behind that vizor of flesh bes- 
towed upon all men. In truth, it is only by 
means of such vizors that the masquerade of 
human life is carried on ; for when the mask 
drops, earth ends. Had it been ortherwise, 
could Crossbone have looked upon the mind 
of St. James, he would have given up all 
thoughts of carriage-wheels, and possibly — 
like many a disappointed varlet — felt an 
instant yearning for virtue, if assured with 
bodily safety. With Newgate suddenly 
frowning upon his soul, he might have wel- 
comed his old abode ; and thought more ten- 
derly of the human weeds of earth, all care- 
less of its flowers. Bui Crossbone was de- 
nied this knowledge ; and therefore sat hap- 
py in his ignorance ; still listening to the 
lies of harlot Fortune, And her silver tongue 
80 beat upon his brain — with such sweet har- 
mony possessed him — that it was not until 
she had twice spoken that Crossbone heard 
the syllables of a real woman ; and then For- 
tune was silent, and melted away in a gol- 
den mist, and the apothecary saw Mother 
Paws — for so she was affectionately named 
by Shoveller — standing at the door. 

It was difficult to think her of the sister- 
hood of Eve. However, the mind was fain 
to submit to the tyranny of petticoats, and — 
though not without a struggle — believe their 
bearer, woman. There was that about her 
that would make a reasonable man, with 
affectionate thoughts for the past, think ten- 
derly of the times w^hen that old, human husk, 
with blinking eyes and mumbling tongue, 
would have been to the world no more than 
a Christmas-log ; a thing to cast upon a fire, 
to make men merry with. In those good 
times, not a cow would have suffered that 
woman to approach her, but would have in- 
exorably refused the eventide milk ; not a 
porker would have caught her eye, but would 


obediently sickened and died of the witch. 
Heavy, sedate haystacks, at the step of that 
old woman, would have taken a thousand 
wings and flown upon a sudden hurricane. 
And, worse than all, impudently, most irrev- 
erently taking to herself the form of a hare, 
she would have led poor Squire October’s 
hounds some tvvent}’' miles and more, and 
then have vanished in a flash of light. She 
would have fed little children upon a diet of 
crooked pins, and blasted the hopes of butter 
churns. And nowq mother Daws was an 
ugly bunch of an old woman, and nothing 
more I And thus it is, by the presumption 
and hard usage of man, Time in his old age 
— like a venerable sire, fobbed by unfilial 
sons — is wronged, cheated and debarred of 
dearest rights and wholesomest amusements 
We have long since taken witches from him ; 
and there are men who, after all his losses, 
would deprive him of the gallows ! What 
in time, will be left to Time ? 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

“You didn’t call?” said Mrs. Daws; 
and Crossbone looked a savage assent. 
“ The gentleman’s gone up-stairs,” added 
the unmoved woman ; for it was not in the 
face or words of tyrannic man to shake her. 
“ Well, I only said what I said when you 
brought her here — I know what I know.” 

“ 'fo the devil with you, and all your 
knowledge at your back !” cried Crossbone, 
and he jumped from his seat, and .<rode 
towards the door. There he paused ; and 
from his lips dropt that manna of life, good 
counsel, “ I tell you what. Mother Sul- 
phurtongue : let me advise you neither to 
see nor hear. At your age, you ought to 
be ashamed of yourself, not to be blind and 
deaf too.” And Crossbone quitted the house, 
and strolling down the lane, turned into a 
little wood ; possibly to think of the reward 
awaiting him ; possibly to add to his know- 
ledge of plants and herbs. As for Mrs. 
Daws, she looked full of slumbering de- 
struction ; and with a passing smile of 
conscious mischief, she betook herself to 
household affairs, calmly, patiently awaiting 
her time. She would wash up the brealS 
fast-things, and well contemplate her mea- 
sures. 

We left St. James upon the stairs. In 
a moment he was at Clarissa’s chamber- 
door. Determined upon making the am- 
plest atonement within his power, he had 
resolved to restore the lady to her injured 
husband. Yes ; he would himself lead her 
back to Mr. Snipeton’s home ; and, con- 
fessing the part that his weakness had con- 
sented to in the plot which, whilst unacted, 


ST. GILES AN^D ST, JAMES. / 


seemed ef such light account,— beg the 
good man’s pardon ; and pledging his no- 
ble word never again to odend, would cure 
himself of the unlawful passion by foreign 
travel ; or he would try to fall in love with 
another. At all events, he was determined 
to make a sacrifice ; and would crown 
himself, the conqueror of his own passions. 
What a vile, base inconceivable scoundrel 
was that dirt-eating apothecary ; how atro- 
cious was the part he had played ; how de- 
grading the association of a moment with 
him ; and then, how satisfactory, how truly 
ennobling to confess a fault, the confession 
coupled with a determination of future 
amendment. And these varied thoughts 
possessed young St. James, as pausing 
with the key in his hand, he was about to 
open the door : he listened ; all was silent. 
Well, there was nothing strange in that. 
Again he listened ; No, she was not sob- 
bing-^there was no sound of grief. Per- 
haps she was fast asleep. There was an 
air of peacefulness — of repose — in all 
things, that even confused him. After all, 
he had possibly wronged the apothecary : 
the man had been a little over-zealous ; no- 
thing more. Still, all was silent. He lis- 
tened : yes : he thought — or tried to think — 
that he heard a low breathing, as of deep 
slumber. Grief never slept so soundly — a 
torn heart sank not so suddenly to rest. It 
was plain, he had been too precipitate ; that 
is, in his determination to restore the wo- 
man to her husband. She might, in her 
heart, despise him for his pusillanimity. In 
her heart, she might rejoice at the violence 
that supplied her own want of courage by 
bearing her away. And then, what a jest 
would it be for the world — for his world — 
should he think to play the moralist. He 
might be nicknamed Scipio for life. Still 
there was no sound ; none, save that of 
lowest breathing. What a simpleton he 
had nearly shown himself ! There could be 
no doubt that the , woman loved him; and, 
the step taken, was profoundly happy for 
her deliverance. Placing the key in his , 
pocket, St. James descended the stairs to 
have some further talk with the apothecary ; 
the ill-used man who had suffered in the hard j 
judgment of his noble friend. Now, whilst 
St. James, following Crossbone, takes coun- 
sel of that wise, worldly man, we will 
return to the Honorable Member for Li- 
quorish ; alkthe time tremendously indig- 
nant at the violence offered to Snipeton’s 
household gods, and resolved, at the cost 
of any exertion or peril, to revenge it. 

Mr. Capstick left Snipeton late in the 
evening, having exacted from him a promise 
that he would attend a council to be held 
at the senator’s lodgings, in Long Acre, 
early next morning, should no news be ob- 1 


1S9 

tained of the fugitive ere then. In the 
meantime, Capstick, advised by Bright Jem, 
had summoned Jerry Whistle, that meekest 
of human bloodhounds, to assist them. Late 
at night, Mr. Whistle had been possessed of 
all the circumstances. Whereupon, he had 
[ played with his watch-chain, and observed 
I —“This sort of caper, you know, Mr. Cap- 
j stick is very often a put-up thing, very of- 
j ten indeed. And I must say it, the evi- 
I dence is all against the ’oman. Yes, 1 
! must say it, against the ’oman.” 

! “ But you have heard that the young man 

says that she was carried off,” said Cap- 
stick. “He’ll swear to it.” 

“ No doubt on it, so far as he could see : 

! very honest young man, that ; I hope, too, 
j he’ll take care of himself. Still, it’s against 
I the ’oman, and it’s my opinion, any jury 
j would so find it. Why bless my heart, Mr. 
Capstick, and have they sent you to parlia- 
ment, and saving your presence, do you 
know no more of life than that ? Why, 
look you here. 'J'he young ’oman. they 
say, is like a full-blown rose, and the old 
man’s as wrinkled as a prune ; there’s a 
young nobleman, too, in the case, and — 
well, well ; depend upon it, if we find her 
out — and I’m safe to do that, or my name’s 
not Whistle — she’ll not thank us for our 
pains, I’m bound for it.” And Whistle went 
his way. 

Now Capstick, though he would not 
confess it to himself, was nevertheless sha- 
ken in his faith by the officer — he spoke 
wuth such a weight of official experience. 
“Jem, I don’t believe a word of it; Mr. 
Whistle has seen so much of the black of 
life, poor man, he can’t believe in any white 
at all — eh, Jem ?” 

“He has seen a good deal, sir ; good deal. 
Wonder he dosen’t look quite worn out, and 
quite wucked,” said Jem. “For I don’t 
know how it is, though wickedness and 
misery ain’t catching, to look at ’em, never- 
theless they do seem to leave a shadow in a 
man’s face ; a something that’s apart on 
^em. I know now, when I’ve been dig- 
ging among the flowers — I wonder who’s 
looking at them precious carnations, now ; 
— I’ve always felt as if I’d got some of 
their brightness about me. A man that 
looks upon tulips, and roses, and flowers 
of all sorts all his life, — why, it’s quite 
plain, he catches their good looks as I may 
say : for that’s the beauty of flowers, they 
always look happy and good-tempered ; bits 
of innocence that almost seem to make us 
innocent while we stare at ’em.” 

“ This is not a time to talk of such trum- 
pery, Jem,” said Capstick— and Jem winced 
at the contemptuous word, which, to say 
the truth, came from the throat, and not the 
heart of the speaker. “My opinion is that 


190 


THE HISTORY OF 


Mrs. Snipetori has been carried off by ruf- 
fian violence. I hope I don’t think too well 
of anybody — I trust not — I never did in all 
my life, and I’m not going to begim now ; 
but I must believe her to be a guiltless, 
ill-used gentlewoman. And then the man 
was knocked down in her defence — and by 
the way, I was going to speak to you about 
that young man.” 

“Yes, sir, to be sure : he’s now search- 
ing all corners, and swears he’ll find his 
mistress, if he dies for it A nice, honest 
young fellow that, sir!” said Jem. “Has 
it in his face, hasn’t he ?” 

“ Why, to say the truth, I think he has ; 
that is, he looks too honest. People who’ve 
so much of it in their faces, people who 
somehow make a show window of their 
countenance — well, somehow, I distrust ’em. 
Where does he come from ? Who were 
his parents ? Has he got a character, and 
did the parson of the parish sign it ? If he 
hasn’t, I don’t believe in him. The fact is. 
I’ve been too easy all my life ; and will ne-, 
ver take a man’s character again if it isn’t 
written in a good bold hand, and properly 
authenticated. Who is he ? Ever since 
he called at the Tub — well, those bees have 
a nice time of it, they have ; they hav’n’t 
to go down to the house — ever since then, 
he’s been flitting about me as if he was 
some mysterious puzzle of a vagabond that 
— why Jem, what are you looking so hard 
at ? What’s the matter, man ?” 

“Well, sir, I must say it ; though you are 
a member of Parliament — Heaven help you 
in all your misfortunes, say I — you haven’t 
grown the wiser on that account. Don’t 
you remember a poor little bit of a dirt of a 
boy called St Giles ?” 

“ Certainly ; one of the things raised to 
be hanged ; one of the little rascalities of 
life reared up, that respectable folks may 
seem all the more respectable ; one of the 
shades of the fine picture of life, bringing 
out the bright colors all the stronger. It’s 
a pity they didn’t hang him. Mercy’s a 
bungling virtue, after all, Jem ; and nine 
times out of ten, does just as much harm as 
mischief itself. Well, what of St. Giles ?” 
cried Capstick, quite relieved by his burst of 
cynicism — quite refreshed with his own 
vinegar. 

“Why, you know he was transported 
- for life. A long time that, sir, for fourteen 
to look for’ard to,” said Jem. 

“Pooh, pooh, he went to a fine place, 
Jem ; Botany Bay ; lovely climate ; six crops 
of peas in a year ; pine-apples for a penny ; 
and cocoanuts so plenty, they put ’em in 
pies instead of pigeons. St. Giles — he ! — 
he 1 a great man now, I’ve no doubt. — 
Shouldn’t wonder if he hunts kangaroos 


with fox-hounds, and drives a coach and 
four.” 

“ Well, with any chance of that, I should 
say he’d never come back agin,” said Jem 
very gravely. 

“ Back again ! Why, Mr. Aniseed, are 
you ignorant of the laws of your country ?” 
cried Capstick, his eye twinkling. 

“I am,” cried Jem ; “ and when I know 
what a lot of wickedness is in some of ’em, 
I can’t say that I’m not glad I don’t know 
any more ; saving your presence, agin, as a 
member of Parliament, and a maker of the 
same.” 

“ Well, then, you don’t know, perhaps, 
that if St. Giles was to put his foot in mer- 
ry England, they’d hang him for the imper- 
tinence ? Are you aware of that interest- 
ing fact, Mr. Aniseed ?” cried Capstick. 

“ Why, without any conceit, I should 
hope I did know that much. But you see, 
sir, love of country is strong; though I 
don’t know why it should be,” said Jem. 

“Nor I. But a man’s love for his coun- 
try is very often like a woman’s love for 
her husband ; the worse the treatment the 
deeper the affection. To be sure, we’re all 
of one family — all men ; and that, I sup- 
pose, is why we quarrel and go to war so 
often. And a droll family we are too, Jem. 
I declare, Jem, when I sometimes sit and 
look at that globe — for since I was made a 
member, of course I could do no other than 
buy a couple, one for the earth and one for 
the stars ; in case anything should come up 
about boundaries of — ” 

“ Of what ? The stars ?” cried Jem. 

“ No ; not of the stars. And — though I 
wouldn’t answer for anything an Act of 
Parliament couldn’t meddle with — when I 
sit and look at the globe, I do think that 
the family of man, as we call ourselves — 
even while we’re grinding swords to cut 
some of the family’s throats — the family is, 
after all, a droll lot. I often do pity my 
millions of brothers. When I’m in bed, I 
think there’s my brother in Greenland go- 
ing to turn out in the snow, to catch a seal 
for dinner ; and there’s my brother in Kaf- 
firland making a very l.andsome sash of 
sheep’s entrails ; and there’s my brother in 
India laying down his body for wheels to 
roll him into paste ; and another Oriental 
brother standing upon one leg for twenty 
years, that he may pass to Brama as a cock 
passes to sleep ; and there are thousands of 
other brothers notching, cutting, tattooing 
fraternal flesh in all shapes and all patterns ; 
and there is another brother on the banks of 
the Bosphorus going home from the pur- 
chase of a fiftieth wife, thinking no more of 
the bargain than if he had bought a tame 
rabbit ; acd then there are crowds of other 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 191 


gluttonous brothers dancing round a brother- 
tied to a stake, ere he shall be roasted — 
dancing round him, and, with epicurean 
eyes, anticipating the tit-bits of the living 
animal ; and there is another brother dying, 
with a cow’s tail in his hand, as though 
that tufty queue tied heaven to earth, and 
he could climb to bliss upon it; and there 
are millions of brothers playing such tricks, 
and, what is worse, permitting such tricks 
to be played upon them, that sometimes, 
Jem, I do feel ashamed of the family. I do. 

* And then I have wished myself — since I 
have a habit of walking upon two legs, and 
any other mode of progress would be incon- 
venient — I have wished myself, Jem, an 
old, grave, patriarchal baboon, deeply buried 
in some forest ; some thick, impervious, 
abiding-place — some green garrison, made 
unapproachable by spikes and thorns, and 
matted canes and reeds, and all the. armory 
that Nature grows, to guard her solitudes. 
Yes Jem ; sometimes when I have been out 
of humor with my family — that most quar- 
relsome biped lot — I have wished myself, as 
I say, an old baboon.” 

“VVell, I never did that. But I do re- 
collect this,” said Jem. “Once, when I 
was a little boy, and had been licked for do- 
ing nothing, but saying I was hungry, and 
standing to it, — once I did wish myself a 
monkey, at a parlor window' in a square, 
eating cherries like any Chrikian, though 
at tne time they couldn’t ha’ been less than 
a shilling a-pound. I did wish that, and 
thought it very wicked afterwards ; but I 
never did, in my proper senses, wish myself 
a baboon, straddling about with a young tree 
for a walking-stick, like I’ve seen em in the 
picture-books. I never did wish that.” 

“That only shows you w'ant arnbitioni, 
Jem. But to return to our love of country, 
Jem, and young St. Giles.” 

“ Well, all that I was going to say is this. 
Suppose he was here — what w'ould you 
do ?” asked Jem. 

“Do! As the law-maker, respect the 
laws. Give up the miscreant, of course,” 
said Capstick. 

“ You couldn’t do it, sir ; no, you could- 
n’t do it,” cried Jem with emphasis ; and 
Capstick, though he tried to look astonished 
at the contradiction, cared not, it w'as plain, 
to pursue the argument. Early the next 
morning, Mr. Whistle made his appearance 
at Capstick’s lodgings ; and Mr.^ Whistle 
was so calm, so self-possessed, apparently so 
content with himself and all the world about 
him, that it was clear he had passed the last 
night in a manner most profitable to the 
ends of justice. With the customary flow- 
er in his mouth, he still hummed a tune, 
still played with his watch-chain. He seem- 


ed perfectly happy ; his heart was warmed 
with a great secret. 

“ Well, Mr. Whistle, about this most un- 
fortunate lady,” said Capstick. ' “Any 
news ? ” 

“ News ! To be sure. She’s all right,” 
cried Whistle. 

“ Right ! ” echoed Capstick. “ Carried 
off-— torn away from her husband — and all 
right ? — Mr. Whistle !” 

“ This is rather a serious business ; not 
at all a common matter, Mr. Capstick. A 
very nice and delicate affair, I can tell you : 
and for this reason” — said Whistle, with 
his finger at his nose, “ there’s nobility in it.” 

“ Nobility ! That makes it more atro- 
cious,” cried Capstick. “ That nobility 
should violate the laws — ” 

“Well, I don’t know,” observed Mr, 
Whistle ; “ as they are born to make ’em, 
perhaps they think they’ve the best right 
to do what they like with ’em. Howsom- 
ever, it will be a difficult job ; a very dif- 
ficult job,” and Whistle shook his head, 

“ I can’t see it. You say— at least I un- 
derstand as much — that you have got good 
scent of the runaway,” 

“ Scent ! What did I come into the world 
for ? I was made on purpose for the work. 
In course I have ; before I went into my 
sheets last night, I could almost have sworn 
where to put my hand upon em, and afore 
I got up this morning, I was moral certain 
of it ; and its turned out as I thought ; in 
course, as I thought.” 

“ Well, then, Mr. Whistle,” cried Cap- 
stick, “ there’s no time to be lost” — 

“ We’ve the day before us,” answered 
the officer ; “ and we mustn’t spoil it by too 
much hurry, you see.” 

But here Mr. Whistle was interrupted by 
the announced arrival of Mr. Snipeton’s ser- 
vant ; and St. Giles, pale and haggard, pre- 
sented himself. He winced, and the color 
flew to his cheek as he saw the officer, who 
— still chewing the flour stalk — looked calm- 
ly, nay kindly, upon the returned transport. 

“ Well, young man,” said Whistle, “ and 
what news do you bring?” 

“ None at all, sir ; none. I’ve not been 
off my legs last night ; and I can hear no- 
thing — nothing,” said St. Giles. 

“ Humph ! 1 believe you know one Cross- 
bone, an apothecary ? He was Mrs. Snipe- 
ton’s doctor down in Kent, eh ? Perhaps 
I’m wrong ; but I’ve heard so,” said Whistle, 
and he looked with a shrewd, magpie look at 
the interrogated. “ And I believe this Mr. 
Crossbone is lawyer to a young noblenjan, 
somewhere about St James’-square, eh? 
And it was the apothecary, I think, who 
recommended you to good Mr. Snipeton ?” 


192 


THE IlISTOilY OF 


To all these questions St. Giles silently 
assented. 

“ Pray, my man,” cried Whistle sharp- 
ly, “ do you know a gentleman, by name 
Thomas Blast ?” 

“ No,” cried St. Giles, quickly ; and then 
he colored at the falsehood. “ Why do you 
ask ?” he stammered. 

“Nothing: I thought you might have 
known him. Howsomever, it seems you 
don’t ; and as his acquaintance isn’t to be 
bragged of, why” — added Whistle, with a 
side-long look, — “ why you don’t loose no- 
thing.” 

Capstick, who for the last few minutes 
had been shifting his feet, and vigorously 
biting his thumb, here cried out, “ W ell, but 
Mr. Whistle, it strikes me that we should 
immediately communicate with Mr. Snipe- 
ton. That wronged, werthy man” — 

“Left his home a little after daylight, sir,” 
cried St. Giles. “ I’ve been to Hampstead, 
sir. He’s gone nobody knows where.” 

“ Poor man !” cried Capstick, “ let’s hope 
the best — but I’m afraid he’s desperate. 
What’s to be done, Mr. Whistle ? What do 
you propose ? Pray, speak, sir ; for Pm in 
such a flame, sir — pray speak.” 

“ The first thing to be done,” said Whis- 
tle, “ is to hire a chaise” — 

“ Of course, instantly. A chaise and four, 
Jem ; directly,” cried Capstick. “ Well, 
and what next?” 

“ Well, that I’ll tell you, when the chaise 
comes,” answered Whistle ; and with this 
answer, we for a short time leave the party, 
returning to the neighborhood of the house 
of Shoveller ; the house so hospitably sur- 
rendered, for so much cash, to Mr. Crossbone. 

In a small room, in an old farm-house, a- 
bout two miles from the prison of Clarissa, 
sat a party of three ; two were engaged on 
ham and eggs, and country ale ; eating and 
drinking, as though life had to them no other 
duties. The third sat silent and sad ; with 
a heavy, leaden look, that seemed to see no- 
thing. Now these three were Tangle, Tom 
Blast, and Snipeton. The old man had 
quitted his home to take the earliest counsel 
of his professional conscience ; and on his 
road to Town had met Tom Blast ; who, as 
he declared, had risen early that he might 
seek the disconsolate husband, and pour into 
his ear consolatory tidings. Mr. Blast had 
spent part of the previous night, contempla- 
ting the iniquity of the case ; and determin- 
ing within himself at once the wisest, and 
most profitable conduct. It was plain, that 
Mr. Shoveller looked upon his merits with 
a very contemptuous eye, and therefore, 
though he had duly assisted at the abduction 
of the lady, knocking down his young friend 
with a stern sense of duty and a bludgeon 
— ^therefore he felt that he should best per- 


form his duty to his .conscience and his in- 
terest, by doing service to Mr Snipeton. He 
would, no doubt, pay a good sum for the 
knowledge of his wife’s whereabout; and 
therefore Blast rose early, like an honest, 
thrifty man, to make offer of the pennyworth. 
And this intention Mr. Blast merely indica- 
ted to Snipeton on their first meeting, as- 
suring him that as the day grew older, the 
information would ripen ; and with this hope 
Snipeton took Blast with him to the house 
of Tangle. It was here that Mr. Blast 
spoke out. It would be his ruin for life — 
there was no doubt of that — if it was known 
that he had peached ; he would be hunted 
all over the world, and never know a mo- 
ment’s quiet ; yet he had, he hoped, a con- 
science ; he had been an unfortunate man, 
always trying to do the right thing, but the 
world never letting him do it ; nevertheless, 
he would not despair of honesty and a good 
character; -wfith a quiet, happy, comfortable 
old age to end with. And so, as it was a 
wicked thing to part man and wife, and he 
could not think where people w^ho did such 
wickedness could ever expect to go to, he 
would at once tell Mr. Snipeton where Mrs. 
Snipeton was for — yes, for ten guineas 
Any body who did not care to be honest, 
would have asked twenty, but he would say 
ten at a word ; leaving anything beyond 
that to the generosity of Mr. Snipeton. 

“ And you are not aware, Mr. Blast,” 
said Tangle, “ that at this moment we may 
take you up for an accessory ; that we may 
cage you, instead of paying you, eh?” 

“Well, and what if you did?” asked 
Blast. “ You might lock me up, I know'; 
but you couldn’t unlock my mouth. But 
it’s like the way of the world : you won’t 
let a poor man be honest, if he would. A 
fine handsome young gentleman’s run off* 
with this old gentleman’s wife, and ” 

“There — no matter — hold your peace,” 
cried Snipeton. “ You shall have the mon- 
ey” — wdiereupon Blast immediately held out 
liis hand — “ wiien the — the woman’s found,” 
said Snipeton. 

“ I can’t give credit, sir ; I can’t, indeed ; 
and for this reason, you see, my character 
won’t let me. Because, supposing I give 
you your wife, and you don’t give me the 
guineas, well. I’ve such a bad name, and 
your sich a respectable gentleman, all the 
world would be on your side, and nobody on 
mine.” We know not whether this reason- 
ing weighed with Snipeton ; but lie counted 
out the ten guineas upon the table, which 
Blast duly took up, counting them again. 

“ For such a beautiful cretur as your 
wife, it’s cheap, sir; I must say it, doff 
cheap.” ® 

“No remarks, fellow,” cried Tangle; 

“ but let us to business directly.” Where 


/ 

r. GILES A?<:D ST. JAMES. 


193 


upon they left Red Lion Square; and, a 
few hours past, were in pleasant Surrey, 
at the farm-house already named. Their 
meal finished, Mr. Tangle rose, and with 
Snipeton held whispering counsel. Then 
Tangle left the house, recommending Blast 
to remain with his patron, duly advised to 
watch him, in the fear of treachery. And 
so two hours passed, when Tangle return- 
ed ; and again whispering with Snipeton, 
the husband, with rage newly lighted in his 1 
countenance, quitted the house ; Tangle, in j 
his turn, taking charge of Blast. 

To return to St. James. His good ge- 
nius— shall we say good, for he thought it 
so ? — led him to Crossbone; who, it will be 
recollected, had walked forth, it may be to 
contemplate the profitable prospects of his 
future life ; it may be to peep and peer in 
hedge and ditch for health-restoring herb. 
Crossbone — there was magic in that know- 
ing man— speedily reassured the timid no- 
bleman. Clarissa doated upon him — was 
only too happy that violence had been used 
— and, in a word,, what would she think of 
him if, with the dove in his hand, he again 
flung it into the sky, when it must needs go 
home ? Had he — so handsome, so spirited a 
gentleman — no fear of the laughter, the ri- 
dicule of the world ? What would it say of 
him ? 

It was very odd, that the thoughts of the 
apothecary should so harmoniously accord 
with that of his own. St. James was de- 
termined. He would see Clarissa; w'ould 
passionately seize the advantage ofiered 
him. He would be an idiot — a block — a 
stone to think otherwise. And with this 
new resolution, St. James returned to the 
house ; Crossbone promising to follow him. 

“ And do you mean to murder the sweet 
lady ?” asked Mrs. Daws of St. James, who 
started at the hard question. 

“ Murder ! my good woman ? What do 
you mean ?” And his lordship blushed. 

“ Y ouVe the key of the door, and she 
ha’n’t had no dinner,” was the old woman’s 
cutting answer. 

“ Here is — stop ! I will myself see and 
apologise to the lady.” Saying this, St. 
James mounted the stairs, and placed the 
key in the lock. One moment, reader, ere 
he turns it. 

An opposite door, unseen by St. James, 
is ajar; an eye gleaming like a snake’s, 
looks from it — looking murderous hate. It 
' is old Snipeton’s. Tangle had effectually 
performed his mission, winning over Mrs. 
Daws ; no difficult achievement, for the old 
creature— -warped, withered, despised for 
age and ugliness — had a woman’s heart that 
revolted at the duty forced upon her by her 
master. Snipeton had resolved to watch 
from his hiding-place ; to listen to the words 


of St. James and his wife, that he might dis- 
tinguish between treachery and truth ; and 
so he had promised himself that he would 
suffer the interview, and calmly — very calm- 
ly— listen. Such was his thought. Weak 
man ! St. James was about to turn the key, 
when Snipeton. with the strength of mad- 
ness, sprang upon him, and whirled him 
from the door. Tn a moment, St James’s 
swmrd was in his hand ; in the next, through 
the body of Snipeton ; who, reeling, drew a 
pistol and fired. St. James was scathless ; 
but the bullet did its mischief ; for Tom 
Blast, rushing upstairs received the unwel- 
come piece of lead — a sad alloy, it must be 
owned, to the ten golden guineas. 

And now the cottage is filled with visi- 
tors; for Capstick, St. Giles, Bright Jem, 
and Jerry Whistle — with a couple of official 
friends — arrive at the door. Snipeton, speech- 
less, with looks of mixed agony and hatred, 
pointed towards St James. Whistle at 
once divined the truth. “ My lord, I ax 
your pardon,” said the polite official, “ but 
you’re my prisoner.” St. James slightly 
bowed, and turned away, followed by the 
two officers. 

“ And there’s another,” cried Tom Blast, 
“there’s St. Giles — horse-stealer — returned 
convict — you know him, Jerry ; you must 
know him — I’m done for — but it’s some- 
thing to hang that dog.” 

“ Tis too true, mate,” said Whistle to St. 
Giles, “ you must go along with me.” 

“With all my heart!” answered St. 
Giles. I see there’s nothing left me but to 
die ; I may be at peace then.” 

Capstick tried to speak, when his eyes 
filled with tears, and he seized St. Giles by 
the hand, and grasped it. I knew you — 
and hoped better — but take heart yet, man ; 
take heart,” said Capstick, whilst Bright 
Jem shook his head, and groaned. 

“ Come in, come in directly,” cried Mrs. 
Daws, with her hands fast upon Crossbone, 
Here’s the good gentleman killed — murder- 
ed.” 

Crossbone looked at Snipeton — felt his 
pulse — and said, “ Who’d have thought it ? 
So he is.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

It was but the walk of a few minutes, 
and the two culprits, St. James and St. Giles 
— who could have thought of this compan- 
ionship of guilt ! — duly escorted by the of- 
ficers, arrived at the little public-house, 
where Capstick and bis companions on the 
journey had left the carriage. The muffin- 
maker himself remained behind at the cot- 
tage, insisting that Crossbone should not 


194 


THE HISTORY OF 


quit the wounded Snipeton ; as, in the a- 
vowed ignorance of Capstick, “ it was quite 
impossible that he should be dead.” Cross- 
bone could only smile contemptuously at 
the hopeful man, and look about him, as 
one looking for an. easy escape. “ The bo- 
dy is the body of a dead man, sir,” said 
Crossbone. “ I think I ought to know : I 
have not practiced so many years not to 
have an intimate acquaintance with death.” 

“ Dead ! Bless my heart ! Really dead, 
and alive' but this minute !” cried Capstick 
vacantly. 

“ Of course. What do you expect hearts 
are made of ? The left ventricle — I’m sure 
of it — cut quite through,” said Crossbone. 
“ Humph ! a pretty piece of news to tell the 
Marquis — and that blessed woman, — it will 
kill her — the Marchioness.” 

“ And the wife of the murdered man !” 
cried Capstick — “ but, dear soul ! she must- 
n’t see this sight:” and he withdrew the 
key from the unturned lock. Let us re- 
move the body.” 

“ Not by any means,” said Tangle. “ Quite 
illegal. Here it must lie for the inquest.” 

“ Lie here ! Why, man, the poor soul 
must step across it to descend the stairs. 
Here Jem ; help me to break the law just a 
little, will you. In that room, Jem ; in that 
room.” And Capstick and Jem lifted the 
dead man into the chamber from whence he 
had rushed upon his death ; Mr. Tangle, du- 
ring the brief operation, loudly declaring that 
not for the best fifty pounds would he have 
a hand in it. “ And now, Mr. Cros^bone, 
we’ll go down stairs to that poor wretch.” 

“ I really have not any time to waste up- 
on such people now,” said the apothecary. 
And when I remember that, at this very mo- 
ment, his lordship may have the greatest 
need of me — ” 

“ You don’t stir from this house” — and 
Capstick, with calmest determination, grasp- 
ed the apothecary’s collar— “until you see 
the man. You don’t know what may de- 
pend upon his life.” 

“ His life !” exclaimed Crossbone. “ Why, 
I’m much mistaken if it’s worth a sixpenny 
rope.” 

“ Perhaps not as you may value the arti- 
cle ; btit as the life of an innocent man may 
depend upon it, you must save one for the 
other’s. I tell you, sir, you must; and 
there’s an end of it.” With this decision, 
Capstick led the apothecary, in custody, in- 
to the parlor, where Tom Blast, with sev- 
eral of the country folks about him, ky writh- 
ing in misery — pain giving to his features 
the most fearful expression. All the hidden 
wickedness — for the man’s heart seemed 
brought into his face — intensified by suffer- 
ing. Two poor women hovered over him ; 
wMlst other spectators stood apart, contem- 


plating with a curiosity that seemed at once 
to fascinate and horrify, the terrible show 
before them. 

Crossbone, still in charge of Capstick, was 
brought to the wounded man ; whose eye, 
flaming with new hate, burned upon the doc- 
tor ; whose voice, rattling in his throat, 
growled inarticulately like a beast’s. Cross- 
bone recoiled from the patient, but was 
brought back by the grasp of Capstick. 
“ Come, sir ; what do you think of him ?” 
asked the Senator. “ There’s life yet, eh ?” 

“• A nothing, sir ; I can see it — oh, yes 
a mere nothing. The ball is somewhere 
here,” and the apothecary manipulated, with 
a strong hand, the sufferer — “ can’t get at it, 
just now; but a little medicine — something 
cooling — and in a day or two we’ll extract 
the lead.” 

“ You’re sure of that, Mr. Doctor ? Quite 
sure ?” asked Blast, with a ferocious grin. 

“ Quite certain,” answered Crossbone. 
“ I’ll pledge even my professional reputation 
upon it.” 

“ Well, then, that’s nothing but right,^’ 
gasped the wounded man; still terribly eye- 
ing his professing preserver. “ For as the 
bullet came all along of you — why you can’t 
do better than — ” 

“A little light-headed just now,” cried 
Crossbone, as Blast failed in his sentence. 

“ But, my dear sir, since you take an in- 
terest in the person,” added the apothecary 
to Capstick, “ I can promise you, that in a 
few days you shall have the bullet qow in 
his body in your own hands, sir ; and his life 
safe — that is, understand me, safe from lead. 
All he wants is quiet — merely quiet.” 

Capstick for a moment, looked thoughtful. 
He then observed— “ Well, then, w^ must 
nurse him.” And saying this, the senator 
exchanged a look with Bright Jem, who, 
with his best significant manner, nodded as- 
sent. Leave we, then, frr a short time the 
dead man, lying stark for the coroner, and 
the wounded ruffian tended by present care 
for the hope of future benefit. 

Mr. Whistle, on arriving at the public- 
house, with his prisoners, with many apolo- 
gies requested his lordship to make himself 
as comfortable as possible under all the cir- 
cumstances. It was an ugly business ; very 
ugly. Had the old gentleman been'mere- 
ly pinked a little, it would not have signi- 
fied ; but death, downright death, made the 
affiiir extremely disagreeable. Nevertheless, 
his lordship had friends who would see that 
he had justice done him— the best justice- 
justice that became his station as a nobleman 
and a gentleman. And reiterating this conso- 
lation, Jerry Whistle again apologised that he 
must call upon his lordship to consider him- 
self a prisoner ; and, for a time, until it was 
quite necessary to appear before the raagis- 


1 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 195 


trate, to accommodate himself to the best 
room of the public-house. As to the ruifian St. 
Giles — well, it was very oaa, Mr. Whistle 
observed, that things should so fall out, — 
but surely his lords Wp would be good enough 
to remember the little vagrant wretch that 
stole his lordship’s feathered hat when quite 
a baby ; or, if his lordship’s memory could 
not go so far back, at least his lordship must 
recollect the pony stolen by the youth St. 
Giles, — he was then the rascal fourteen, and 
must have known better, — and for which he 
he was to have been hanged ; only, foolishly 
enough, he* had been sent to Botany Bay ; 
whence not knowing when he was really well 
oflf, he had run away, that he might put his 
head in a halter at Newgate. He must say it ; 
it was odd, that a gentleman like his lordship 
St. James, and such an old offender as St. 
Giles, should be, so to speak, in trouble to- 
gether. 

“ Poor wretch !” said the nobleman. “ And 
where is St. Giles ?” 

“ Why, my lord, he is properly secured in 
a bit of an outhouse. There’s a nice clean 
wisp of straw for him, and his own thoughts. 
And, moreover, for though it’s weak, I some- 
how like to treat a prisoner like a man — 
moreover, I have ordered him a pint of beer 
and some bread and cheese. The county 
pays for it — and if it didn’t, why, though I 
don’t brag, ’twould be all the same to Jerry 
Whistle.” 

St. James was about to reply to this, 
when, after a slight, brief knock, the door 
opened, and Mr. Tangle, with a face of 
most tremendous woe, and his whole figure 
possessed by affliction, crawlecf into the 
room. He looked mournfully at St. James, 
bowed, and deeply sighed. 

“ Do you come to reproach me, Mr. Tan- 
gle,” said St. James, “with the death of 
your old friend ?” 

“ Not I, my dear lord,” cried Tangle, 
quickly, “ not for worlds. I would reproach 
no man in his trouble, much less a gentle- 
man — I beg your pordon, my lord — I should 
say much less a nobleman. Besides, allow 
me to disabuse your lordship’s mind. Mr, 
Snipeton was no friend of mine, certainly 
not. No two could be less alike — I hope. 
We were only professionally bound together, 
nothing more. Tics of red tape, my lord ; 
ties of red tape, — that’s all.” 

“ To what, then,” said St. James, with an 
effort, “ may I owe the favor of this visit ?” 

“ Oh, my dear lord !” exclaimed Tangle, 
at the same time slowly taking his handker- 
chief from his pocket, and well shaking it 
ere he applied it to his eyes. “Oh, my 
lord !” he repeated, with his face covered. 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Tangle,” said Whistle, 
“ but I cannot have his lordship distressed 
after this manner. Fm a man of business. 


whatever the grief may be. Now if you’ve 

anything to say that will serve the pris 

what am I about? — his lordship, I should 
say, why, put aside your pocket-handker- 
chief, and give it mouth.” 

Mr. Tangle seemed to struggle with him- 
self to obey this injunction. At length, 
however, he displayed his naked face, and 
vigorously winking his eye-lids as though to 
well dry them, he said, — “ It is not, my lord, 
for to forget that I was once honored with 
the patronage of your noble house. At a 
time like the present, when an accidental 
death—’’ 

“ Yes, I know,” said St. James, and he 
shuddered from head to foot — “ I know ; the 
man is dead.” 

“ He is, my lord,” said the consolatory 
Tangle. “ What then ? We all must die.” 

“ What a blighted wretch am I !” ex- 
claimed the young man ; “ blood, blood upon 
my hands !” 

“ Not at all, my lord,” cried the attorney ; 
“ for depend upon it, a verdict must wipe ’em 
clean. And that, saving your lordship’s 
presence, that I have ventured to come 
about.” St. James idly stared at him. 
“ There will, of course, be a trial : that is, 
a form, an honorable form, to clear your 
lordship. And, my lord, it would be an hon- 
or to me in my declining age — at a time, too, 
my lord, when honoris doubly precious to pro- 
fessional men — to be allowed to attend your 
lordship through this business.” 

“ That can’t be, very well, can it ?” asked 
Whistle ; “ for won’t they call upon you as a 
witness ?” 

“ Impossible. I saw nothing of the trans- 
action, I’ll take my oath” — and Tangle be- 
came even enthusiastic in his asseverations 
— “ I’ll take my oath, I saw nothing of it. 
Will, you, therefore, my lord, honor me by 
your approving commands ?” And Tangle 
bowed to the floor. 

“ As you will, Mr. Tangle ; do what you 
please,” said St. James, indifferently. 

“ Thank you, my lord. I am delighted, 
my lord, at the opportunity — that is, I am 
grateful, my lord ; particularly grateful ; and 
^now, your lordship” — and Tangle suddenly 
fell into a solemn, organ-like strain, befit- 
ting his words — “ and now, to business.” 

“ Well, business. What is it — what of 
it ? Do as you please,” cried St. James. . 

“ Oh, my lord, this confidence is, I must 
say it, affecting. Well, then, my lord you 
must have counsel.” 

“ Go on, sir.” 

“ Permit me, then, my lord, to recommend 
— the only man — Mr, Montecute Crawley.” 

“ Montecute Crawley,” faintly echoed St. 
James ; and at the sound, he was in the 
criminal court of the county of Kent, and 
saw that weeping advocate of innocence. 


19G 


THE HISTORY .OF 


“ Were my own brother in clanger — no, I 
mean, were 1 myself, — I know ifio man like 
Mr. Crawley. Bless you, he has all the 
heartstrings of the Jury in his fingers, like 
the fellow with Punch, and pulls ’em just 
which way he likes. He’s safe for office — 
nothing can keep him out of it. As I heard 
a young barrister say only a w^eek since, 
‘Crawley,’ says he, ‘will take the turn of 
the tide, and float into office on his own 
tears.’ What a speech he will make about 
your lordship ! Not a dry eye in court, and, 
for what I know, folks v/eeping outside. 
Weil, then, my dear lord, say Mr. Mon- 
tecute Crawley. There isn’t a moment 
to loose. In a matter of murder — that 
is, what the fiction of the law calls 
murder — he’s in first request. At this mo- 
ment, for all I know, we may be too late. 
And should they have him on the other side 
— pardon me, my lord — though 1 know your 
case is admirable, nothing stronger — never- 
theless, pardon me, my lord, I must tremble. 

I say with respect — I must tremble.” 

“ Well, Mr. Montecute Crawley, if you 
will,” said St. James, carelessly. 

Ere, however, the words were well out, 
Mr, Tangle had caught his assenting client 
by the hand, and with a fervor more than 
professional, exclaimed — “ Thank you, my 
lord — bless you, my lord — you have made 
me a happy man, my lord, i’ll ride myself 
for post-horses to Kingston, and before I 
sleep, depend upon it, Mr. Crawley’s clerk 
has the retainer in his hand. Keep your 
spirits up, my dear lord, and remember — if I 
may be so bold to say it — that you live under 
a constitution in which a nobleman is not 
to be outraged by the hand of plebeian violence 
v/ithout — without — ” 

“ Enough, sir — I know what you would 
say,” cried St. James with disgust. 

“ It’s very kind of your lordship to say 
so,” and, with his humblest bow. Tangle left 
the room. 

“We shall not stay long here, Mr. Whis- 
tle?” asked St. James. “ Of course, there 
is another ceremony ?” 

“ To be sure, my lord : of course, my lord. 
We have to go before the magistrate : a mat- 
ter of form. But every respect will be paid 
to your lordship. A terrible accident, my 
lord, but nothing more. Nevertheless, it can’t 
be denied that, just now, juries are getting a 
sort of spite against folks of nobility, and 
therefore, my lord, I am glad — yes 1 will 
say it, J am glad — that, to prevent any acci- 
dent, you’ve got Mr. Montecute Crawley. 
Bless you ! He’s such a man for washing 
blacky moors white — got quite a name for it.” 

“ Will you grant me one favor, Mr. 
Whistle ?” asked St. James, suddenly rous- 
ing himself from deep thought. 


“ I wish you could ask twenty, my lord : 
any favor, except — of course, your lordship 
knows what I mean — any favor but that 
one. Never lost a prisoner yet, my lord; 
and though I’d do anything for your lord- 
ship’s noble family, — still I couldn’t do 
that and Whistle looked at the door, and 
shook his head, 

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Whistle ; I 
have no such purpose. Whatever may be 
the result of this most miserable deed, I 
must and will await it. The favor I would 
ask is this ; — Can you let me have some 
conversation with — with my fellow-prison- 
er ?” 

Whistle stared. “Fellow-prisoner!” he 
echoed : “ Well, there isn’t a bit of pride in 
your lordship ! If, of course, you wish it, 
why, of course it’s done. But your lord- 
ship should recollect, he’s a returned trans- 
port, a rebellious convict, that’s again flown 
into the face of his mother country by com- 
ing back to her. As sure as you’re alive, 
my lord, he’ll be hanged, and — ^liowever, it’s 
for your lordship to choose your own com- 
pany ; of course.” 

“ Then I am to understand, Mr. Whistle, 
that you consent?” asked St. James, a little 
impatiently. 

“ To be sure ; whatever your lordship 
wishes — in reason. Here,Wix — and Whis- 
tle, opening the door, called to one of his 
assistants — “ bring your prisoner afore his 
lordship, and bear a hand with him. Not a 
bit of pride, I do declare,” repeated Whis- 
tle to himself, as he surveyed St. James with 
wonder and admiration. 

St. James, in silence, paced the room, 
and Whistle continued to contemplate him 
as a marvel of condescension ; and then 
Whistle’s thoughts took another current. 

“ To be sure, when the best of people are 
brought in danger of the gallows, it does a 
little take the starch of pride out of ’em.” 
This all unconsciously floated through 
Whistle’s brain, as still he looked upon the 
young nobleman, and with all his might en- 
f deavored to consider him a paragon of hu- 
mility. 

In brief time St. Giles, in custody of the 
officer, stood at the door. “ Mr. Whistle,” 
said St. James, with the most polished cour- 
tesy, “ may I request that, for a few minutes, 
this young man and myself be left together.” 
Whistle was melted away by the politeness, 
yet, nevertheless, looked doubtingly about 
him. “ You can still keep watch through 
the window. There is but one— one door 
too.” 

“ Of course, your lordship— tube sure ; not 
that I thought of that— by no means and 
Whistle, assuring himself that he could keep 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


197 


as certain watch outside as within, bovved, 
and hastily retired. 

“ So, young man,” said St. James, with a 
forced calmness, “ so, we have met, it seems, 
in early — very early life.” 

“Yes, my lord; very early,” answered 
St. Giles. “I take it, I remember the mat- 
ter better than your lordship.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ Why, my lord, wretches, such as I am, 
and such as I have always been, — saving 
your presence — have quicker memories than 
gentlefolks like you. We take a sharper ac- 
count of life, for we feel it sharper — earlier. 
I recollect when I was little more than a 
babe, I may say, robbing your lordship. Well, 
it was my fate.” 

“Not so, St. Giles — not so.” 

“How was I to know otherwise? Who 
taught me otherwise ? How did 1 know that 
I was not made to steal and be whipped for 
it — and still to steal and — and — be hanged 
for it? Your lordship, when a child, was — 
I know it — kind to the boy-thief. You said 
a good word for him ; they told me all about 
it, and my heart felt strangely enough — soft- 
ened, 1 thought. And still I went on — and 
still you was my friend.” 

“ And will still be so,” said St. James ; 
“ if, indeed, such a miserable creature as I 
am may promise anything. Now, tell me : 
Mrs. Snipeton — did she seem a willing 
agent? Was her resistance, when carried 
oif, a real passion ; or was it, think you, but 
a colorable show of opposition ?” 

“ I cannot say, my lord ; that is, I cannot 
speak from what 1 saw ; I was unhorsed, 
struck to the ground, stunned and bleeding ; 
the worst luck it w^as so — otherwise, I think, 
the lady had been now at home, and the old 
man alive, and your lordship — ” 

“ Unstained by murder. Oh that my 
life could bring back yesterday !” exclaim- 
ed St. James ; and, for the first time, his 
grief burst forth in all the bitterness of re- 
morse. With his face in his hands, he wept 
convulsively. 

“ I am afraid, my lord,” said St. Giles, 
“I am afraid that man Crossbone has 
wickedly deceived you. I’m sure on it ; no- 
thing short of force would have taken the 
sweet young cretur from her home.” 

“ You are sure of it? Was, she, then, so 
fond — so tenderly attached to — to Mr. Snipe- 
ton ?” 

“ Oh, not so, my lord — not so, so far as I 
could see : but, somehow, when the old man 
looked at her as if his own heart was in her 
bosom, I could see — even for the time I was 
with ’em — I could see she pitied him too 
much to run a\yay from him. Bless you ! 
she was too good and too — ” 

“ Enough — we will talk no more of it. I 


have been gulled, duped — the vain, yet guil- 
ty vjctim of a scoundrel ; and the end is — I 
am a blood-shedder.” 

“ I can’t say your lordship’s been without 
blame ; bad as I am, I can’t say that. Nev- 
ertheless, you didn’t mean to kill the old 
man — I’m sure you didn’t. ’Tv as a hot mi- 
nute, and it’s a bad job ; for all that, your 
lordship will, I hope, see many happy days 
to come. Though my time’s short, I’ll pray 
for that, my lord, with dl my soul.” 

“ I tell you, St. Giles, you shall still find 
friends in my family ; your life shall still be 
spared.” 

“ And what for, my lord ? To be shipped 
off again — to be chained and worked worse 
than a beast ; to have every bit of manhood 
crushed ; to have no use for thought but 
think curses. No, my lord ! Fate’s against 
me. I was sent into the world, to be made 
as they call it, an example of ; and the soon- 
er it’s all over the better. I was born and suck- 
led a thief. I was whipped, imprisoned, 
transported, for a thief ; and something bet- 
ter grew up in me, and I resolved to turn up- 
on the. world a new face. I was determin- 
ed, come what would, to live honestly, or die 
in a ditch for it. W'dl ; the world would- 
n’t have it. The world seemed to sneer 
and laugh at me for the conceit of the 
thing. I’ve been dodged and dodged by 
the devil, that first sold me ; I’ve tried to de- 
fy him ; but as I say, fate’s against me, and 
it’s no use. I look out upon the world, and I 
only see one place — one little piece of ground 
— where there’s rest for such as I am ; and 
where mercy may be shown to them as tru- 
ly repent. I trust to get from God what man 
denies rne.” 

“ Nay, poor fellow — ” 

“ Beg your pardon, my lord,” said Whis- 
tle, putting his head in at the door, “ but the 
post-chaise is come, and — if’s only a form — 
but we must drive to Kingston, to the magis- 
trate’s.” 

“ I’m quite ready,” said St, James, taking 
his hat. “ And your other prisoner ?” 

“ We’ve got a cart for him,” answered 
Whistle. 

Not so,” said St. James, “ we’ll even ride 
together.” 

“ Why, your lordship would never so con- 
descend — never so demean yourself—” 

“ Get in,” said St. James, opening the 
chaise-door, and urging St. Giles, who re- 
luctantly entered the vehicle. “ There is no 
condescension for such villany as mine.” 

“ All right,” said Whistle, mounting out- 
side ; “ all right — to Kingston.” And St. 
James the homicide, and St. Giles the horse- 
stealer, were, in close companionship of 
guilt, driven to the magistrate’s, on their 
way to the county gaol. 


198 


THE HISTORY OF 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

“ Wilful murder.” Two ugly words to 
be flung in the teeth of a young nobleman. 
Nevertheless, a Surrey jury, having sat upon 
the body of Ebenezer Snipeton, returned such 
verdict — went through such matter of form, 
as Tangle benevolently explained it away, 
and young St. James, in Kingston gaol, 
awaited the opening of the sessions. Hap- 
pily, however, for his cause, Mr. Montecute 
Crawley was retained, and from the interest 
he expressed for the young nobleman himself, 
and for the house of St. James at large, there 
was no doubt that the learned counsel would 
be more than ordinarily pathetic. Kingston 
gaol was for some weeks the resort of very 
fashionable people, tender in inquiries touch- 
in the health and spirits of the noble offender, 
and — we sigh for human depravity as we 
chronicle the wickedness — more than one 
Kingston innkeeper was known to express a 
lively hope that “ some fine young lord would 
kill a money-lender every week, it did such 
a world of good for business.” Thus, day 
after day between the murder and the trial 
was benevolently killed by the friends of St. 
James for his ease and consolation. 

And the outcast, vagabond horse-stealer 
and returned convict, was not left friendless 
to count the passing hours between the dun- 
geon and the gibbet. The member for Li- 
quorish, at least once a week, condescended 
to visit Kingston gaol, generally accompa- 
nied by Mr. Tangle, who suddenly expressed 
the tenderest sort of professional sympathy 
toward the offender. Mr. Capstick, the law- 
yer, and Bright Jem, were one day, some 
fortnight before the sessions, at the prison 
with St. Giles, in council upon his mode of 
defence, a subject which the muffin-maker 
seemed to fondle with growing affection — 
when they were summoned by the turnkey. 

“ If you please, gen’lemen, and you, St. 
Giles, you’re wanted in the infirmary,” said 
the man. 

“ With the greatest pleasure — certainly,” 
said Mr. Capstick. “ What’s the matter ?” 

“ Why, the prisoner, Tom Blast” — he had 
been committed to safe custody to insure his 
evidence — “ wants to die.” 

“ Weil,” cried Capstick. “ Has anybody 
expressed any objection ?” 

“ Not in the least,” said the turnkey, ‘‘ on- 
ly he says he can’t die comfortable, afore he 
sees you, sir, and the prisoner, St. Giles, in 
partic’lar. He says he wants to make him- 
self as clean as he can afore he goes out 
o’ the world, and the governor has sent for the 
magistrate and clerk, that all things may be 
done proper.” 

Very right — most important,” exclaimed 
Capstick. “ Come along, St. Giles ; well, 
death’s a rare softener. The inexpressible 


rascal ! Poor, miserable wretch !” and Cap- 
stick, duly followed, proceeded to the infir- 
mary. 

Snipton’s bullet had done its work, al- 
though Mr. Crossbone’s professional reputa- 
tion had been duly vindicated, and fhe lead 
extracted from the ruffian. It had, neverthe- 
less, left its mortal sting behind ; Tom’s in- 
temperate habits had rendered him, as the 
doctor familiarly observed to the sufferer, a 
ticklish subject ; inflammation ensued, and 
Thomas Blast was in a fair way, in his last 
hour, to defeat the prophecy of past envy, 
and to die in a bed with naked feet. “ If I 
hadn’t a drunk so, doctor says I’d ha’ got 
over it,” observed thqt philosophic scoundrel 
to the nurse. “ It isn’t the lead, but the gin. 
Well, if gin isn’t the devil himself — cheat 
him as you may, he’s sure in the end to be 
down upon us.” These moral reflections 
were delivered by Blast with the air of a man 
who, nevertheless, believes that he has 
strength or luck enough in him to beat the 
devii in the long run, though he does not care 
to withhold a compliment to the subtlety of 
the demon. But days wore on, and Tom- 
in the agony of a hopeless soul — began to 
execrate the past, and to howl at the future. 
A day or two, a few hours, and all would be 
known ! The chaplain of the prison preached 
repentance, and the culprit writhed at Jhe 
adjuration as though beneath the lash. It was 
impossible then to repent ; it was only to add 
to crime a mockery of goodness. Neverthe- 
less, he would confess. Yes ; he would lift 
away somewhat of the load of lies that stifled 
his heart ; though it was no use — he knew 
that — still he would do it. No harm at least 
could come of it ; and it would be something, 
at least for him, to do any deed which was 
not hurtful to somebody. And so — he would 
confess. 

Hereupon the turnkey, by direction of the 
governor, proceeded to St. Giles’ dungeon, 
and delivered the summons. Death was in 
Blast’s face — death in his eyes — and he 
mumbled with a dying tongue. His awful 
look, his silent fight with the mastering power 
of nature, subdued in St. Giles all thought, 
all purpose of revenge. He saw before him 
the man who had stamped upon his yielding 
childhood the ineffacable brand of infamy — 
he, the felon reserved for the gibbet, beheld 
the villain who had, in very babyhood, pre- 
doomed him — and yet he viewed him with 
compassionate, with charitable looks, for he 
saw a human creature fast subsiding into 
churchyard ’day. . St. Giles moved silently 
to the dying man ; and, after a brief inward 
struggle, betokened by an outward shiver, 
held forth his hand to his old and early enemy. 

“ I can’t take it, St. Giles— Lcan’t take it 
— ’t would scorch me — burn me — like — like 
where I’m going,” muttered Blast; and still 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


199 


he fought for breath. “ Don’t speak — nobo- 
dy — make no noise. And you, sir, God bless 
you — if I may say God — you, sir, take down 
what I say and Blast motioned to the ma- 
gistrate’s clerk, prepared to take the deposb 
tion. “ Now, then,” cried Blast, and with 
an effort, the result of indomitable will as- 
serting its last, he sat up in the bed, and con- 
trolled thehorrid working of his face, the con- 
'vulsive movement of his limbs. He looked 
terribly calm as he thus delivered himself — 
“ St. Giles, poor boy, never stole no horse — 
I did it — I tricked him into it — I had the 
money for it — I made a thief of him — and 
I transported him. I wish I could live to be 
hanged for it — don’t laugh — 1 do — so that they 
shouldn’t hurt a hair of that poor cretur’s 
head. It’s been a bad world to him all along, 
but I’ve been the worst devil in it to him — 
and I know it. I’m a-goin’ where I must an- 
swer for it. There — that’s all I have to say. 
He was wrongfully transported, and had a 
right to come back agin. If any harm comes 
to him for it, it’s murder, that’s all. I’ve 
got nothin’ — nothin’ — more to say,” and the 
poor wretch fell back in the bed. 

St. Giles sprang forward and had already 
one arm about Blast’s neck. The dying man 
unclosed his burning eyes, and, for a minute, 
gazed intently at his victim. Then his chest 
lieaved and labored, and with a loud sob his 
heart loosed itself in tears, that trickled down 
the hands of him who had been his baby vic- 
tim. Not a sound, save the sobbing of re- 
morse, was heard. And then Capstick 
coughed loudly, as was his wont, on strong 
occasions. Bright Jem shrank into a cor- 
ner, and plied his arm across his eyes. 

“ God bless you, St. Giles — yes, now I can 
say it : I didn’t think I could — God Bless 
you, St. Giles. Whatever fortin’s left for 
you in this world, you’re all right, yow are in 
— in — ” and Blast, as though choking, 
paused. 

At this moment, an old acquaintance of the 
readers. Kingcup, the schoolmaster, entered. 
He was followed by a clean, comely looking 
child ; no other than that babe of the gutter, 
little Jingo. When St. Giles, wandering 
from the town of Liquorish, into its green 
neighborhood, met Bright Jem, it may be re- 
membered that, a minute after, young Jingo 
fell into the hands of his brother. Bright 
Jem was bound on an errand to the school- 
master ; and St. Giles, revealing himself to 
his early friend, took with him the vagabond 
boy, and briefly telling the story of his des- 
titution, of his certain destruction in the, 
hands of Blast, implored and induced the 
good old man to receive the child. — 
Capstick was for a time to know nothing of 
the matter — answering for necessary charges. 
Kingcup, one of the unrewarded heroes of 
die world — a conscientious village school- 


master-received the child as he would have 
snatched him from fire or flood. And the 
boy, in a brief time, unconsciously vindica- 
ted the wisdom, the goodness of Almighty 
Nature, that does not — however contrary the 
old-fashioned creed — send into the world 
crowds of infant villains ; suckling scoun- 
drels who grow in wickedness as in stature ; 
and would seem only sent upon earth the bet- 
ter, by shadows, to bring out the lights of 
respectable life. Jingo looked clean and 
happy ; and had lost that sly, sidelong, hound- 
like look which, at the breast, he had been 
taught to copy even from the eyes that gazed 
down upon him. Early teaching this — but 
even at this moment, how many the pupils ! 

Bright Jem, saying no word to St. Giles, 
had written to Kingcup to come to the prison 
with his pupil. 

“Why — who’s that?” cried Blast, fixing 
his eyes upon the child ; “ it can’t be him — - 
no, it can’t be. That’s how he would have 
looked, poor creature, if — if he’d had a moth- 
er ; if — ’’ Here the boy held forth his hand. 
Blast seized it, and snatched him close to the 
bed. At the moment, it was plain death was 
in the, man’s throat — was creeping into his 
eyes ; for he drew the boy’s face close to his 
own, and tried — and tried to read it — and 
seemed baffled — and still tried. And then 
he passed his dying hand over the little face, 
and a smile — a smile of knowledge and as- 
surance — gleamed in the features of the dy- 
ing man. It was their last living expression : 
the next instant they were blank clay. 

There was silence for a minute : and then 
Capstick, with a loud prefatory cough, ob- 
served to the magistrate, “ The deposition is 
quite in form, I hope ?” 

“ Perfectly right, sir. With deponent’s 
mark, and duly witnessed. Ail in form, sir,” 
answered the clerk. 

“ I should like to have a copy,” said Cap- 
stick, as he turned away with the magistrate. 

“ Certainly ; I can’t see any objection. 
Nevertheless, my dear sir, and though I very 
much admire your energy in this affair ; 
nevertheless, it would be very wrong of you 
to hope — don’t hope,” said his worship. 

“ I can’t help it,” said Capstick ; it’s my 
infirmity : an ailment I trust I shall carry to 
the grave.” And the muffin-maker, urged 
by the inveteracy of the disease, v/alked from 
the prison with the magistrate, affirming that 
it was impossible for any Christian govern- 
ment to hang a man in the face of such a de- 
position. 

The magistrate paused, smiled, and, mak- 
ing a farewell bow, blandly observed — “ Im- 
possible ! My dear sir, you’ll pardon my 
frankness ; but — I must say it — I wonder 
that you, as a member of parliament, don’t 
know better — very m ch better — than to say 
so. Good morning. 


200 


THE HISTORY OF 


Time passed, and the trumpets brayed, in 
tlie streets of Kingston, the advent of Justice. 
She had come with nicest balance, to weigh 
the sins of men — with Mercy, doubtless, 
somewhere in her train to wait upon her. 

The trial of young St. James took prece- 
dence of the trial of St. Giles. This was to 
be expected. ■ “ Betters first,” as a simple 
dweller in Kingston observed, in easy gossip, 
to a neighbor. The trial of a nobleman, 
and for murder, too, was a great event for 
the town ; and the small traders and inhabi- 
tants, in their artless way, hailed it with due 
honor. Stalls — even as at joyous fair time 
— were set up in the streets ; and ginger- 
bread and ginger-nuts were offered to the 
faint and hungry. People put on their best 
clothes, and at parlor windows, in public 
houses, and at street corners, airily discussed 
the question, “ whether his lordship would be 
hanged or not ?” The general opinion, how- 
ever, ran in favor of his lordship’s vitality ; 
not from the conviction of his merits in the 
case ; certainly not ; but from a stiff-necked 
belief in a prejudiced people that “ they’d 
never hang a lord, though he’d killed fifty 
men.’’ And yet, had the good populace paus- 
ed to think, they might have acknowledged 
that Tyburn Tree had borne such fruit. 

The day of trial dawned. Never before 
had ostlers been so busy in the town of Kings- 
ton. “ Never such posting in the memory 
of man,” was an opinion generally indulged 
in the stable-yards ; “ never so much nobility 
and gentry in Kingston afore,” was the satis- 
fied thought of inn-keepers at the bar. No- 
body could have thought that the murder of 
a money-lender — who, it had been profanely 
uttered in the street, was better out of the 
world than in it — would have done so much 
good for the trade of Kingston. 

The town was all life — three-parts fashion- 
able life. Beaux and beauties had flocked 
from London, significantly to testify, by their 
presence, to the high character of the inter- 
esting noblem.an about to appear in the dock. 
The court was opened, and in a few minutes 
— there was a murmur — a buzz — a profound 
hush — and young St. James stood a prisoner 
at the bar, the jury — twelve worthy house- 
keepers of Surrey — looking at him as they 
would have looked at one of the royal lions 
in the tower ; a dangerous, but withal a very 
majestic and interesting creature. 

In the first quarter of an hour everybody 
showed signs of greatest interest in the case ; 
then, by degrees, anxiety subsided, and ere 
half an hour had passed, a sudden stranger, 
uninformed of the awful business of the time, 
might have thought the court assembled, 
merely met for casual talk. However, in 
due season, Mr. Montecute Crawley touched 
the heart of the assembly. Great was the 
rustling of silk, when he rose for the defence. 


! He rose, he said, with great difficulty It 
was plain that he was inwardly wrestling 
with great emotion. Already, the tears 
seemed very close to his eyes, and, at every 
instant, might be expected to run over. The 
learned and lachrymose counsel, in his de- 
fence, took a very comprehensive view of the 
case. If ever he had felt the acuteness of 
pain — the intensity of suffering from the con- 
viction of his great inability to grapple with 
a difficulty, it was at that moment. How- 
ever, he must not shrink, and would, there- 
fore throw himself upon the best feelings of 
the jury. 

The learned counsel said it was impossi- 
ble that the distinguished nobleman at the 
bar could have any malice against the de- 
ceased, who had brought a violent death 
upon himself — and he, the counsel, would 
only fervently hope that the wretched man 
was well prepared to meet the sudden sum- 
mons — by the vehemence of his passion. It 
had been proved in evidence, that the de- 
ceased had, from his hiding-place, sprung 
upon the prisoner; who, with a human in- 
stinct, quickened by nobility of blood, drew 
his weapon, and death ensued. Nobody 
could regret the issue more than himself; 
but the jury must bear this in mind. A 
man — a nobleman — believed himself as 
saulted by a sudden enemy ; and the law of 
self-preservation — who could deny it ? — was 
paramount to any law, with all humility it 
might be said, made by king, lords or com- 
mons. The prisoner was of noble blood. 
More than a thousand years ago, the blood 
that beat at the prisoner’s heart was enno- 
bled, and — even as a river, (he would say, 
the Nile,) flooding from an undiscovered 
source, widening, deepening on, bearing 
new glories as it runs, and with increasing 
and fertilizing magnificence enriching the 
family of man — so might it be said of the 
blood in the veins of the nobleman at the 
bar, that from the time whereto the memory 
of man ran not to the contrary, it had de- 
scended from sire to sire, blessing and bene- 
fitting generation after generation. He, 
the counsel, would beg the jury to consider 
the effect of even an imaginary blow upon 
such a man — upon one, whose Norman an- 
cestors had leapt on this soil of merry Eng- 
land, making it their own— -on one whose pro 
genitors had bled at Poictiers and Cresay, 
and Marston-Moor, and — but he would not 
weary the attention of an enlightened jury by 
too minute an enumeration of the debts owed 
by England to the family of the distinguished 
individual who, at that moment unfortunately 
— he could not but say, unfortunately stood 
at the bar. No ; he would leave the number 
to be filled up by the intelligence of the jury 
he addressed. He would only again beg 
them to consider the effect of an imaginary 


ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


201 


blow upon a man whose family had given 
generals to the field, dignitaries to the court, 
chancellors to the 

Here the learned counsel— whose eyelids 
had for some time reddened and trembled, 
burst into a flood of tears — sank down upon 
his seat and sobbed in his handkerchief. 
The effect was very fine upon all in court. 
Ladies plied their scent bottles,, and one or 
two, less guarded than the rest, violently 
blew their noses. After a decent time al- 
lowed to grief, Mr. Montecute Crawley, 
putting down emotion with giant will, was 
again upon his legs. 

He had nothing more to say.. With 
every confidence he left the case of the no- 
bleman at the^ bar in the hands of the jury ; 
convinced that they would arrive at such a 
verdict as would to the last day of their 
lengthened lives contribute to the sweetness 
and soundness of their nightly sleep, and the 
^ prosperity and happiness of their waking 
hours. 

The judge summed up the case with 
unusual brevity ; and ere Mr. Montecute 
Crawley had well dried his eyes, the jury 
returned a verdict — “ Not Guilty.” 

Let us pass the burst of applause that 
shook the roof — the crowding of friends 
about the innocent nobleman, no longer a 
prisoner, with his almost instantaneous de- 
parture for London in the carriage-and-four, 
confidently prepared and waiting for him at 
the prison walls. St. James is a free man. 

^But our story has yet a prisoner — St. Giles. 

The next day was appointed for the trial 
of the returned convict. The court was at- 
tended by a few idlers. Capstick, Bright 
Jem, and Becky — her face scalded with 
tears — were present ; and Mr. Tangle, as so- 
licitor for the prisoner, was very busy, and 
spoke in terms of considerable tenderness to 
the Member for Liquorish, assuring him that 
at least heaven and earth should be moved 
to save St. Giles. “ I tell you sir,” repea- 
ted the attorney — “ I tell you. I’ll move both 
heaven and earth. My interest can go no 
further.” 

“ Not yet,” said Capstick, and his eyes 
twinkled. 

“ Silence in the court !” exclaimed the 
officers, and the trial was continued. 

•. It was a very matter-of-fact case. The 
prisoner at ihe bar had been convicted, 
when quite a boy, of horse-stealing ; evi- 
dence was given -of judgment, his identity 
was proved, and there could remain no doubt 
— nevertheless, if the jury had a scruple the 
prisoner ought to benefit by it — of the crime 
of the culprit in the dock. Blast’s dying 
declaration of the innocence of St. Giles 
was put in ; but the judge, biting the end of 
his quill, shook his head. 

Mr. Montecute Crawley, not being very 
14 


well from the wear-and-tear of his emotions 
on the previous morning, albeit retained by 
order of St. James to defend St. Giles, was 
compelled fo resign his brief to his junior, 
who would be, Mr.. Crawley comfortably ob- 
served, a very promising young man some 
day. The young gentleman, evidently sat- 
isfied himself with his defence of the pri- 
soner, and, indeed, had hardly ceased to ac- 
knowledge the encouraging nod of the lead- 
er, when the judge, having shortly summed 
up, the jury, not stirring from the box, re- 
turned their verdict — “ Guilty.” 

There was a heavy fall upon the floor, 
and poor Becky, pale and insensible as a 
corpse, was carried out. 

The judge placed the black cap upon his 
head. “ Prisoner at the bar,” he said, 
“ you have been tried by a jury of your fel- 
low-countrymen, and have been found guilty 
of a most henious crime against the peace 
of our sovereign lord, the king, and the laws 
of this ream. I am sorrow that there is 
nothing in your case that pleads for the least 
chance of mercy. Far be it from me to add 
to your suffering at this moment by any 
harsh word of mine. Nevertheless, it is 
only due to society that I should briefly 
dwell upon the career that has brought you 
to this most dreadful condition. It appears 
that, altogether heedless of the blessing of a 
Christian society and Christian influences, 
you, at a very early age, in fact, as a mere 
child, broke the commandment that says, 
‘ Thou shalt not steal.’ Your thefts, I grant, 
were petty ones ; your robbery grows with 
growth. You proceeded in your reckless 
conduct, and were, at lenth — I have the con- 
viction before me — condemned to death for 
horse-scealing.” 

** My lord, the deposition !” cried Capstick. 

“ Take that man into custody, if he speaks 
another word,” thundered the judge to the 
officer. Then, after a pause, he continued. 

“ The deposition shall be forwarded to the 
proper quarter ; but I would solemnly advise 
you, prisoner at the bar, to indulge in no vain 
hope upon that head. As I have already 
said, you were condemned to death for horse- 
stealing, when the royal clemency intervened, 
and your sentence was commuted to trans- 
portation, You were sent to a country, blest 
with a salubrious climate and a most fertile 
soil. And you ought to have shown your 
gratitude for your deliverance from a shame- 
ful death by remaining in your adopted land 
However, your natural hardness of heart 
prompted you to fly in the face of the king’s 
mercy, and return to this kingdom. The 
punishment for this crime is wisely ordered 
by our law to be death. This punishment 
you will suffer. In the time, however, that 
will elapse ere you are called from this world, 
you will be attended by a Christian minister 


202 


THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 


who will instruct your darkened mind with 
the glorious truths of Christianity ; will teach 
you their goodness, their abounding mercy, 
and, above all, their charity for all men. You 
will have the means of this consolation ; I 
implore you, make use of them. And now 
the sentence of this court is that you be taken 
to whence you came, and be hanged by the 
neck until you are dead.” 

Briefly, St. Giles was not hanged. No. 
St. James repeated the good work of his 
boyhood, and^aided by Capstick, who made 
his maiden speech in parliament on the ques- 
tion, calling the attention of the minister to 
the confession of Blast — St. Giles was par- 
doned. He married Becky, and lived and 
died a decent shopkeeper. Indeed, he had 
so far beaten the prejudices of the world, 
that ere he parted from it, he had been en- 
trusted with the duties of churchwarden. 

St. James, a few weeks after the trial, 
went abroad, made the grand tour, returned, 
married a duke’s daughter, and, to the end 
of his days, supported to the utmost the dignity 
of his order. 

Mr. Crossbone, defeated in his hopes of 
court preferment, again retired to the country, 
to cultivate the weeds of life. He, however, 
had the subsequent satisfaction of transport- 
ing Mr. Robert Willis for highway robbery ; 
an operation performed at the cheapest cost 
to Mr. Crossbone, as the robber pillaged him 
of only four and two-pence and a tobacco- 
etopper. 


A metropolitan tombstone still records the 
pleasing fact, that Mr. Tangle died at the age 
of eighty-two, “ a faithful husband, an affec- 
tion father, and an unswerving friend. His 
charity was as boundless as it was unosten- 
tatious.” Thus speaks Tangle’s tombstone ! 
and who — save it may be the recording angel 
— shall contradict a tomb-stone ? 

And Clarissa — what of Clarissa ? She 
shrank from the world, and living, was not 
of life, but died the daily death of a wasting 
heart — one other victim to the thousands 
gone and — to come. 

And Capstick, at the end of the first ses* 
si on, took office — became the steward of the 
Chiltren Hundreds. ’ He and Bright Jem 
went back to the Tub, and many a time 
would talk of the events that, all imperfectly, 
we have chronicled in these pages. Cap- 
stick retained his old humor to the last. He 
would often talk of St. James and St. Giles, 
and would always end his discourse with 
something like these words : — 

“Well, St. James ‘ sneaked away upon a 
tour, and St. Giles was pardoned ; all right 
that it should be so. Nevertheless, Jem, as 
it’s turned out, it’s more like the happy wind- 
up of a story on paper than a bit of real life. 
I can’t make it out how it has so happened ; 
for I expected nothing less than that St; 
Giles would be hanged, and the Lord St. 
James sent to some foreign court as English 
ambassador. 


THE EMD, 


1 


I 


GEORGE: 

PUNTiil OF THB IllB OF PRANfii. 


33ji ^lle^anbre ©umas, 

AUTHOR OF “ THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO ,» » GENEVIEVE " Etc., Etc. 


Price, 5 0 Cents. 


Since the time of Scott, the department of historical novel writing has 
been an important part of the literature of the world. All that the gene- 
rality of the world know about certain characters, who have played an im- 
portant part in its history, is derived from them. They give us our ideas 
about the habits of the people and the events of the^ times. /The James I. 
and Louis IX., whom we know are the James and Louis of Scott. They 
supply the place of History and Biography. When well written, they are 
an eminent aid to the scholar. They fling the romance of individual life 
around the details of the historian, and impress upon the mind particulars 
otherwise forgotten. ' 

At the head of, this class of writers stands at the present time Alexandre 
Dumas, who in the dramatic energy of his works rivals Sir Walter, and in 
fertility of incident is equalled only by Smollet. Did he possess the inimi- 
table descriptive powers of Scott, he might safely challenge all rivalry, and 
distance all competitors in his own peculiar line. As an historical novelist, 
his excellence consists in his admirable adaptation of event, character, and 
language to the time of which he writes. His Richelieu is the Richelieu of 
history, relentless, inscrutable, omniscient, using friends and enemies alike 
for his own ends, compressing opposition and conspiracy itself, to the ad- 
vancement of his plans. Hislather characters are such as the time would 
bring forth. In all his other novels he adheres to historic truth in the satne 
degree. He elucidates history. As a novelist, he has two prime qualities : 
the hurrying rapidity of his incidents, and the dramatic fidelity of his cha- 
racters. He has no plot that wearies us to unravel its intricacies. His 
characters show for themselves, by their language, what they are. He never 
delineates. He never moralizes. He does not tell us such an one hates, 
loves, is grieved — we see it and feel it ourselves. His characters need but 
to speak to be recognized. 

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tiie Picture, by giving its history in a dramatic fiction well worthy a niche 
beside the magnificent story termed the “ Count of Monte-Cristo;” 

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rillVA OF MERIDOR, 

OR 

THE LADY OE MONSOBEAH. 

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE, 

BY ALEXANDER DDMAS. 

PricB, ©ne JDollar. 

WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIVE ENGRAVINGS. 


It is questionable whether,* for the purpose of inditing a brilliant story, a more 
happy period of time or implements so ready could have been selected by an author 
than is comprised within the era of the closing dynasty of the Henries of the house 
of Valois. 

The vestiges of a feudal subserviency, and the power wielded by certain orders, 
two centuries ago, are in our day, barely discoverable. Then, it was the burnished 
mail, the lance, and the gauntlet — now, it is the reaping-hook, the ploughshare, and 
the spade ; in those times, the lord commanded the lives as well as the services of^ 
his retainers— in these, the serf is a lord equally with he who once was his master. 
This change is, doubtless, for mankind a noble and profitable one, but it has stripped 
life of its romance — its dazzle — its historical splendor. Science, Art, and Civiliza- 
tion have uprooted the lists of the tournament and every trace of chivalry, which 
spread so bright a halo over the ages gone by ; and it is only in perusing the pages 
of a Scott or a Dumas that the pictures of those days of prowess and renown are at 
all presented to our minds. * 

As in everything he undertakes, Dumas in this instance performs his task admi- 
rably. He seizes the period immediately following the decease of the weak, witless 
Charles IX., when that monarch’s brother, under the title of Henry III., has ascend- 
ed the throne. The queen-mother, the cruel and wily Catharine de Medicis, has re- 
tired from state affairs only the more swiftly to circumvent the destruction of those 
she suspects. Henry of Navarre, afterwards the great Henry IV., with his consort, 
flies the Court and is at the extremity of the kingdom, preparing his followers to 
maintain independence and the Protestant league. In such a state are affairs when 
the story opens, a story in which the reader will not alone be delighted and aston- 
ished by the plot upon plot ingeniously wove into the narrative, but charmed and in- 
structed both by the beauty of style and youthful vigor in which the work is un- 
folded. Every new book of Dumas’ is only a fresh literary gem thrown in the cas- 
ket, the brightest of which will be pronounced by many to be “ The Lady of 
Monsoreau.” 

The above work will be completed in Four Parts. Price 25 cents each. 

WILLIAMS & CO., Publishers, 

' 24) Ann street. New York, and 22 Congress street. Boston, 


THE REIGN OF 


TERROR! 


GENEVIEVE: 

OR, THE 

CHEVALIER OF THE MAISOH EOUHE. 

AIV HISrORICAL ROMANCE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, 

AUTHOR OF “ MONTE-CRISTO,” “THREE GUARDSMEN,” ETC., ETC. 

TRANSLATED BY H. W. HERBERT, ESQ., 

PRICE 50 CENTS. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIVE ENGRAVINGS. 


The unbounded success of “ The Count of Monte-Cristo,” by Alexandre Dumas, re- 
cently published by Burgess, Stringer & Co., has induced that firm at great expense, 
to issue in advance the above as deservedly celebrated production, just fresh from the 
pen of the same inimitable writer. The plot, scenes, and characters, are laid chiefly 
in the City of Paris, the author choosing for his ground-work the occurrences tak- 
ing place during that mournful and sanguinary phase of the French Revolution, 
embraced by the year 1793. It opens at the period immediately succeeding the 
execution of the monarch, Louis XVI, to circumvent whose destruction Constitu- 
tionalist and Republican, Girondist and Jacobin, united their voices in the National 
Assembly. The Queen and Royal Family are close prisoners, the Constitutional 
party in the Legislature, a doomed body, while the fortunes of those apostles of 
anarchy, Danton, Marat, and Robespierre, are rising through a sea of terror and 
blood. Such is the base upon which the novel is reared. 

To delineate the changeful and homogeneous state of society — to dissect truthfully 
and intelligently the political and social conditions under which the masses lived 
and moved — to depict the madness, ambition, noble sacrifices, and horrors of that 
notable epoch, necessarily demands the pen of a master. That master is, most in- 
disputably, Dumas. Like Sir Walter Scott, we have little from him that has not his- 
tory for a foundation. In the present work, for instance, he presents us a picture 
tenfold more attractive, tenfold more vivid, than the records of a Thiers or a Miche- 
let ; while with his characteristic ability, he envelopes the whole with a romance so 
charming, that it is difficult to avoid blending it with the reality. The sufferings of 
a bereaved queen in confinement — the devoted gallantry of a few noble hearts, deter- 
mined to conquer or perish — the cruelties of a populace driven insane by the very 
drunkenness of political excitement, are depicted with an animation and vigor that 
remind one of the most brilliant pages of the great “ Wizard of the North.” To 
deny Dumas the highest meed among French historical novelists is to do him injus- 
tice ; for the thousand gems strewed through his great work, “ Monte-Cristo,” and 
the equally inventive genius and deep knowledge of the human passions displayed in 
the “ Chevalier of the Maison Rouge,” would otherwise never have dazzled and 
delighted our mind’s vision. Dumas’s works (translated as is the present, by a 
person of education and travelled knowledge,) only want reading to be universally 
admired. 

“ Genevieve” is got up in One Large Volume, also in Two Parts— in either of 
which forms the Price is Fifty Cents. Excellent engravings, illustrative of some 
of the scenes, accompanying the work. 

BURGESS, STRINGER & CO., 

222 Broadway, New York, Publishers. 




I 




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